


all for one (and one for all)

by grahamhannah53



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BDSM themes, Cyberpunk, Cyberpunk AU, Inappropriate Use of Legilimency, Legilimency (Harry Potter), Legilimency Sex (Harry Potter), M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Soldier!Harry, Spy!Draco, Switching, Three Musketeers AU, alternating povs, based kind of off bbc one's musketeers and alexandre dumas works, draco malfoy has nine lives, harry & ron & hermione & neville are musketeers kinda but also not, hint of infidelity but like i dont think it counts? since technically they're separated, just read it, magic is replaced by technology in this one, mpreg possibility mentioned, noncon mention but ill warn in the chapter notes and its really just a mention
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:15:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 70,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28724958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grahamhannah53/pseuds/grahamhannah53
Summary: "For the sake of England, do the right thing for once. ""I did the right thing once, and if I recall correctly, you killed me for it, dear husband," Draco snarled viciously from beneath his hospital blankets, looking rather like a furious hedgehog with his hair sticking up in every direction."Are we still fucking on that?" Harry crossed his arms, defiant. "You lived, get over it!"++++++++++++Harry is a soldier who gave up his nobility to serve England in this time of chaos and turmoil; Draco is a spy and an assassin, and Harry's supposedly dead spouse. When evil begins to stir among England's lesser nobility, among the unseated barons and lords who were previously stripped of their titles for treason, Harry and Draco are only just rediscovering each other— how on earth are they supposed to manage their (at best, contentious) relationship and prevent a coup at the same time?TLDR; Follow Harry and Draco in this tale of action, adventure, and a bit of sneaky scheming, and we'll see whether or not they can save both England from its enemies and themselves from each other. You don’t have to have read The Three Musketeers to enjoy this!
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 48
Kudos: 36





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Cyberpunk!Three Musketeers AU, in which Harry, Hermione, and Ron represent my version of the Three Musketeers (Athos, Aramis, and Porthos respectively), Neville is our beloved D’Artagnan, and Draco is the beguiling Lord de Winter— except it's all generally less French. The story takes place in a post-modern cyberpunk world in which humanity has reverted back to what it knows best: feudal hierarchies and organized religion. 
> 
> P.S., I know maybe like two things about the world across the pond, so be gentle with the handling, my lovelies!

Neville had always wanted to be part of The Garrison.

Not because it was expected of him— though it certainly was, since his parents had been tortured to the point of madness in service of the crown— but rather because the idea of being part of such a renowned brotherhood of warriors was too appealing to resist. A paycheck, a roof over his head, and dozens upon dozens of compatriots who would be closer and more loyal than brothers— what more could a person ask for? Anything to get Neville off of that blasted farm would have done, but this was  _ The Garrison _ , the balls-of-steel brigade. When a former member had offered to write Neville a letter of recommendation, Neville had jumped at the chance. 

A letter of recommendation… which Neville had lost. 

Well, he hadn’t  _ lost  _ it, not really— it had been stolen, which, perhaps, was all the more shameful. How could he expect to be accepted into the most selective security force in the nation if he couldn’t even defend his own person? One look at himself and Neville wouldn’t commission himself either. But still, in all fairness, he’d been a bit…  _ distracted. _

The memory of that particular distraction night before followed him, haunting his thoughts like the spectre that it was.

_ A striking young man floated from one side of the hotel bar to the other, fluid, graceful, almost serpentine in his movements. With hair like cornsilk and eyes like gunmetal, he drew the gaze of every single patron, man, woman, or otherwise. Neville was no exception— he’d always had an eye for the finer things in life, and this man was clearly one of those finer things. Having never been found lacking in courage, Neville wasted no time in walking to the bar and approaching the handsome stranger with his head high and shoulders back. _

_ “Hullo,” he said, extending his hand in greeting. “I’m Neville.” _

_ The blond paused for a moment, then smiled, sharp and sweet.  _

_ “Hello, Neville,” he purred, bringing Neville’s proffered hand to his lips for a soft, barely-there kiss. “My name is de Winter— Lord de Winter, really, but de Winter would suffice for someone as handsome as you. How do you do?” _

_ “Oh, I’m splendid, thank you for asking!” Neville replied, pleased that the interaction seemed to be going rather well. “Can I buy you a drink, m’lord?” _

_ De Winter nodded, tilting his head to the side as though to examine Neville better. The movement drew Neville’s attention to a thick leather band that encircled the long, lean column of the man’s neck. It was an odd choice of accessory, but an enticing one, especially on one so fair as this de Winter, whose pale skin brought the black of the leather necklace into stark relief.  _

_ “I never turn down free drinks,” de Winter said conversationally, his voice as smooth as silk and as warm as a cup of tea, “Though I do wonder what a gentleman whose accent whispers of the countryside is doing in London. Aren’t the rolling hills and soft green grasses much more preferable to the smog and the smell?” _

_ “Oh, I’m here on business,” Neville replied, placing their order with the bartender.  _

_ “Business, you say?” de Winter asked, leaning in closely, now-silvery eyes sparkling with interest in the incandescent lighting above them. “How vague. Do go on, Monsieur, tell me of this business.” _

_ “Monsieur? Are you French, then?” _

_ De Winter smiled once more, and Neville felt strangely like he was the butt of some unspoken joke.  _

_ “When it suits me, yes, though England will always have my heart. Now, I must know— what business brings the man I’m going to pass the night with to my little haunt in London?” _

And, as instructed, Neville had told him. 

Foolishly, Neville had revealed every last detail of his journey, destination, and future plans, all the while drinking whatever was handed to him by the ever-observant de Winter. Before the end of the night, Neville had been roaringly drunk— so much so that he had even gone so far as to divulge the location and contents of his letter of recommendation— and though he had little memory of the night after that, he woke at the bar only to find his letter removed from his breast pocket and replaced by a couple sprigs of forget-me-nots. 

_ Damn that de Winter,  _ Neville thought not for the first time that morning as he approached The Garrison’s high metal walls, trying not to feel daunted.

The Garrison cut an imposing figure, even in a city of steel and spikes— it was a veritable fortress that hummed and crackled with both figurative and literal energy, and Neville would bet the thousands of dollars worth of tech implanted in his body that every man patrolling atop those walls were rough, ruthless, and ready to meet any challenge. The  _ constant vigilance  _ that The Garrison was known for promoting could be felt a mile away, and now that Neville was only a few feet from the gate, it felt almost smothering. Distantly, he wondered how anyone could live there and sleep in peace with all that pacing going on, but before he could dwell very long on the subject, the gate guard was approaching, motioning for Neville to stay where he was.

“State your name and business,” the gate guard said, examining Neville with mechanically glowing eyes. 

“Oh, er, I’m Neville Longbottom,” Neville supplied, smiling shakily as he swallowed past the lump in his throat. “Son of Frank and Alice Longbottom. I’m here to see Captain Robards.”

The guard had no reply— he just kept looking Neville over, presumably scanning for tech and other weapons. A few moments more, and Neville was squirming under the guard’s scrutiny. Just when Neville was about to open his mouth to ask whether or not it really took so bloody long to scan a person, the guard stepped back, motioning for the gate to be opened, and Neville let out a breath that he wasn’t aware that he’d been holding. 

Thanking the guard, Neville crossed the threshold into The Garrison with renewed boldness, not entirely unaware that these were his first steps into a new chapter of his life.

The Garrison was somehow everything and nothing Neville has expected it to be. Everywhere his gaze fell, Neville spotted weaponry and tech of every shape, size, and type. It appeared that everyone was armed to the teeth from the largest to the smallest, from the oldest to the youngest— and yet, just as common as the number and variety of weapons in The Garrison were the easy smiles and bright laughter of its members. Always in groups of two or three, members of The Garrison came and went, either chatting idly, watching as their comrades played dice or cards, or trained relentlessly, sparring in the middle of the streets. A strange sort of joy seemed to envelop the place, and Neville, quite unconscious of his own expression, allowed a small, genuine smile to creep onto his own face. 

_ This is where I belong,  _ Neville thought, giddy with wonder as he feet carried him forward in an almost directionless manner.  _ This is going to be my home. _

“Erm, hello there!” A voice rang out some distance behind him, high and sweet in timbre. “Are you lost?”

Neville turned to see a slim, curly-haired young woman heading towards him, waving her arm in greeting. She was quite lovely, with dark eyes that sparkled with geniality, but beneath her skin was the shimmery spark of implanted tech, and slung across her back was a rather nasty-looking assault rifle. Neville was certain that anyone who mistook this woman’s kindness for weakness would get a rude awakening, and he couldn’t help but smile internally as he wondered how many alpha male arses she’d had to kick to carve out a place here. 

“Well, as it happens, I was looking for Captain Robards,” Neville told her, smiling sheepishly. “I’m Neville.”

The woman stuck out her hand, which Neville promptly shook. “Hermione Granger. I can take you to Robards if you’d like— his office is almost impossible to find for a newcomer, I don’t know why they didn’t send a guide with you in the first place— but I can’t let him see me and you can’t tell him who brought you. I’m sort of… hiding.”

“In a spot of trouble, then?” Neville teased, and Hermione grimaced. 

“Something like that.”

Neville grinned. “Well, you’ve got nothing to fear from me. After all, I’ve never met anyone named Hermione before, have I?”

An expression of gleeful camaraderie passed over Hermione’s face, and she looped an arm through Neville’s.

“You know, I quite like you already, Neville.”

Together, they walked towards Robards’ office, arm-in-arm like old friends. As they went, Hermione pointed out several different people and places of importance, thoroughly educating Neville on the inner workings of The Garrison in dizzying detail. Just when Neville thought his head was going to spin right off his shoulders, a gruff male voice called out a few feet ahead, halting their conversation.

“Oi, Hermione! Come help me out, Harry’s a heavy bugger these days!”

The owner of the voice was a tall, broad, red-headed man who was propping up an equally tall and broad fellow who was looking decidedly worse for wear with gauze wrapped around a shoulder wound.

“Honestly, Ronald, you two are hopeless,” Hermione huffed, shooting Neville an apologetic look before striding over, hands on hips.

“You say that like it’s  _ my  _ fault Harry got absolutely pissed last night!”

“But it  _ is  _ your fault that he got shot in the shoulder at that  _ stupid  _ pub I keep telling you two to stay out of. You  _ know  _ that’s Red Guard territory.”

“You went with us!”

“Because I knew something like this would happen!“

“I’m fine, ‘Mione,” Harry croaked, wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve as he attempted to draw himself up to his full height. He tried for a smile, but Hermione didn’t seem convinced. “Who’s your new friend?” __

When Harry’s eyes met Neville’s own, he felt frozen in place. Those eyes— so impossibly green, like shards of sea glass— pinned him to his spot, producing an effect not unlike that of a cobra on a mockingbird. The moment was so intense that there was no doubt in Neville’s mind that his instincts were trying to warn him, telling him in no uncertain terms that this person was the most powerful man he’d ever met.

“Oh, sorry,” Hermione smiled, breaking the trance Nevill had found himself caught in. “This is Neville. Neville, this is Harry, my best friend, and Ron, my fiancé.”

“Hullo,” Neville greeted them, and Harry stepped forward, extending his hand with a kind smile.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Harry said, wincing as he moved his shoulder. “Sorry, I probably look and smell like shite. I usually make a better first impression.”

“He can’t possibly complain that much, Harry,” Ron grinned, taking his turn to shake Neville’s hand. “After all, we’ve rescued him from ‘Mione’s endless chattering, haven’t we?”

Hermione gasped. “Ronald Bilius Weasley!”

“Hermione has been really helpful, actually,” Neville interjected, hoping to de-escalate any quarrelling between the armed and dangerous. “She was taking me to see Captain Robards.”

Everyone sobered at that, and Neville wondered briefly whether he preferred his death to come by blade or bullet. 

“Hermione, that’s stupid,” Harry said, breaking the silence. “Really,  _ really _ stupid.”

“Says the idiot who started a firefight last night,” Hermione sniffed.

“This is the career equivalent of that, babe,” Ron replied, placing a hand on her shoulder. “He’s going to have our guts for garters.”

“But someone has to help Neville!”

“I can find it on my own, I don’t want to trouble anyone,” Neville offered, backing away with his hands raised. “I didn’t know there was anything the matter or I wouldn’t have accepted the help.”

Ron snorted. “Yeah, right. I still can’t find that bloody office sometimes, mate. You’re definitely going to need an escort.”

At that, the three of them— Harry, Ron, and Hermione— exchanged looks, and Harry sighed.

“All for one… ” Harry sighed, his lips quirking up at the edges to form an exasperated grin. 

“And one for all,” Ron and Hermione finished, clasping each other’s hands.

“We’ll go together,” Harry explained, clearly for Neville’s benefit. “That way, if we get caught. ‘Mione won’t be in it on her own.”

“Oh,” said Neville. “That’s quite lovely of you.”

“Of course,” Harry shrugged. “It’s what we do.”

The rest of the way, they walked in silence, but never once did Neville feel uncomfortable. Ron and Hermione swung their hands between them, and Harry slung his arm over Neville’s shoulder, both for support for his injury and the pleasant physical reassurance of a comrade close by. Had it been anyone else, Neville might have felt awkward being in such close proximity to someone he’s only just met, but there was something about Harry that made Neville feel completely relaxed despite his earlier unease.

“Hold,” Hermione muttered as they came to a crossroads, and they all stopped in the middle of the path. A split second later, a scouting drone flew over the adjacent pathway, scanning for signs of life. 

“This is as far as we can take you,” Hermione told Neville, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. “Robards is the second building on the right, straight across.”

Grateful, Neville smiled and extended his hand once more. “Thank you, all of you— wish me luck!”

“Good luck,” Ron grinned, clapping him on the back. “Well, any luck that’s better than Harry’s anyways.”

“Oi!” 

With that, Neville left the safety of his newfound acquaintances, and subsequently remembered that he was about to show up empty-handed in front of the third most powerful man in the country expecting to be handed a commission despite his negligence in losing the letter. Valiantly, Neville shoved all insecurity and hesitation aside and strode forward— Robards could call him careless, foolish, and gullible, but on the legacy of Frank and Alice Longbottom, no man would ever have cause to call Neville a coward. It was with straight shoulders and a high head that Neville knocked upon Robards’ door, and for once, he felt the confidence that he positioned his body to declare. 

“Enter!” Came the call from inside, and the metal door swung inwards, allowing Neville to step into the office of Gawain Robards, Captain of The Garrison. 

“Well, color me chuffed,” Robards’ voice boomed as Neville walked closer under the fluorescent lights. “You hardly need an introduction, my boy— you are the very image of your parents, Mr. Longbottom. I see so much of Frank and Alice in you that it pinches, lad. How are they?”

“As well as they can be,” Neville replied, figuring that honesty was the best policy with a man of action like Robards. “I try not to think about it, sir.”

“I see.” Robards stood, rising to a rather intimidating height. “I don’t blame you. They’re heroes, but they paid the ultimate price for it. Ah, well, enough about the past— I can only assume you’re here about the future.”

“That’s right, sir,” Neville smiled, suddenly sheepish. He was preparing himself to make excuses for his lack of references when Robards clapped his hands together and continued speaking.

“Excellent. I trust you won’t mind if I take care of some business first?” 

Neville might have, since he’d crossed the country just to be there, but seeing as how he could use some more time to think of something to say for himself, he just shook his head.

“Of course not, sir.”

“Much appreciated.” With that, Robards let out a heavy sigh. “Harry! Hermione! Ron! I know you’re out there, you mad little buggers— I want you standing in front of me this instant!”

Like a line of sad ducks in a row, in they came, heads down and eyes averted. If Neville hadn’t felt so incredibly guilty, he might have found it funny— in fact, it was still a bit comical to see someone who oozed power like Harry hang his head and drag his feet like a child who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. 

“Good morning, Captain,” Hermione greeted him, clearly attempting to smile, but botching it entirely. 

“Is it?” Robards shot back, folding his arms. “I hadn’t noticed. I was too busy meeting with the Royal Council until just now to notice. Do you know what His Royal Highness told me this morning? Any of you?”

“Nope,” Ron replied, as blunt as a bat, and Hermione elbowed him savagely for it. 

“But we’re certainly hoping you’d be gracious enough to tell us,” she added, and Harry cast his eyes heavenward, as though seeking divine intervention. 

“Well, Granger, since you put it that way, I think I will. He told me that he should start recruiting for The Garrison from among the Cardinal’s guard.”

All three of them blanched.

“ _ Snape’s  _ men?” Ron protested warmly, his eyes narrowing. “But he’s stupid! And mean! And ugly! And his Red Guard are even worse than he is!”

Robards nodded his agreement. “Just so, and they’re a sight better behaved in public, might I add. The Cardinal made sure to point out that six—  _ six!—  _ soldiers from The Garrison were arrested last night in a fight in a cabaret downtown. My men, arrested! Dare-devils, braggarts he called us— and you three were among them, causing chaos in the streets!”

“But—” Ron began, but Robards stopped him. 

“Don’t try to deny it, you were named and recognized,” Robards huffed, and Neville was finding the floorboards very interesting “But it’s my own fault— I select my own men. I don’t know  _ why  _ I’m so angry with you lot, because how could I have expected anything different?”

“In all fairness, sir, the cause was just,” Harry interjected, scratching the back of his head. “One of Snape’s men, a lieutenant from the Red Guard, I believe, was harassing one of the dancers, threatening to follow her home and have his way with her and all that sort of rot— I told him he’d do no such thing, and his fellows took objection to my tone. From there, well, he obviously struck the first blow, so we tussled a bit before I pinned him to the floor. Then, after I let him up and gave him a friendly hand to his feet, he shot me in the shoulder while my back was turned. Ron, Hermione, and the rest felt obligated to respond in kind… so it’s all my fault, really. Can’t blame the others, even if they probably were already thirsty for Red Guard blood. ”

Robards shook his head. “It’s  _ always  _ your fault, Potter. If Cho Chang dropped her mother’s vase of daffodils this very instant, it would somehow be you to blame.”

Harry’s smile was tired and a bit crooked, but charming nonetheless. “I’m one great big cock-up, sir, to be sure.”

And just like that, all of Robards’ lingering anger seemed to dissipate, releasing in the form of a dry laugh from the captain.

“God never gave me any natural children of my own, and yet I have half a city yet to raise,” Robards lamented, moving to sit back down at his desk. “What are my soldiers but big, lethal children?”

“And giant cock-ups,” Ron added helpfully, and Harry choked out a laugh. 

Robards shook his head, but Neville didn’t miss the fondness in his eyes.

"Now, on to other business— get lost, brats. I’ve got to ask Mr. Longbottom what brings him here.”

“Actually,” Neville said, glancing at Hermione, “I’d rather they stayed. They helped me find my way thus far, so I figure they’re entitled to know my story as well.”

Robards laughed from deep in his belly, a sound that should have shaken the walls. “Thick as thieves already, are you? Well, fine. Out with it, lad. Why come to London and seek me out?”

Neville told them everything. Sparing no detail, he intimated his heart’s desire to be a member of The Garrison, and the unfortunate circumstances that had lost him his letter. The other four listened intently, seeming to be intrigued, but when Neville made mention of de Winter, Harry, Ron, and Hermione swore in unison.

“Fucking hell,” Harry growled, his face like a thundercloud. “It’s always fucking de Winter.”

“I take it you’ve met?” Neville could think of no better way to inspire such venom in a person.

“Not quite,” Ron grumbled. “We’ve only heard of him, whispers here and there whenever our plans are foiled by suspicious circumstances. He’s a Frenchman, to hear the Red Guard tell it, a spy and assassin for the Cardinal. Word has it that men follow de Winter home from the taverns and are never seen again— and that his looks could get him into any man’s bed, but his wiles could put any man in his casket.”

“Did you get a good look at him?” Hermione asked, suddenly excited. “If you can give us a description, we might have a better idea of who we’re looking for! Who knows, maybe we could even get him to The Garrison for interrogation.”

“Oh, you’d know him if you saw him,” Neville replied, thinking back to striking blond hair and silver eyes. “The man is extraordinarily gifted in the looks department.”

Neville described de Winter as best he could without sounding like a lust-sick madman, but he must have failed somewhere along the line because Harry, Ron, and Hermione all looked increasingly uncomfortable the longer Neville talked. 

“Oh, and in the pocket where my letter used to be, I found these,” Neville said, pulling out the somewhat-squashed forget-me-nots that had been left for him. 

At the sight of the dainty blue flowers, Harry turned positively green. 

“It’s… probably just coincidence?” Ron was trying, but he didn’t sound very convinced. 

“Or, more likely, Snape has done his research on you,” Hermione added, placing a comforting hand on Harry’s uninjured shoulder. “I wouldn’t put it past him to try and recreate the ghosts from your past just to torture you.”

Harry shook his head slowly, as though he were trying to see something that just wasn’t there. “It has to be something else. Draco— he’s dead. I saw him hanged, ‘Mione. I gave the order and watched it happen. He— it’s just impossible.”

Robards sighed. “I don’t think I even want to know.”

“You really, really don’t,” Ron replied, looking downright murderous. 

_ I do _ , Neville wanted to say, but now seemed like a bad time to indulge his innate curiosity. 

“It’s alright, Ron,” Harry said, twisting the ring that sat on his left finger. “It’s a matter of security now. If by some chance… well, it’s better that the captain knows.”

Robards’ gaze softened. “It’s alright, lad, you don’t owe me anything.”

“But I do.” Harry’s expression was tortured— Neville had never seen so much pain written across a person’s face before. “I owe you everything, and if this turns sour, you need to know who and what you’re dealing with.”

Robards nodded, and Hermione and Ron simultaneously shifted closer to Harry as if to be his physical support.

“Neville, the description you gave… well, I used to know a man who was exactly as you said.” Harry’s eyes looked far, far away, and Hermione wrapped a hand around his arm, steadying him. “The name he gave me was Draco Black, and that’s who I thought he was.”

“I take it he wasn’t?” Neville ventured, and Hermione shook her head.

"Not at all. You see, Harry was a lord before he gave up everything to become a soldier,” she informed him in that clinical way of hers. “Harry, Ron, and I were all quite close, all having grown up at court— Ron and Harry as lords, myself as a lady-in-waiting— so it wasn't uncommon for us to travel with Harry back to his estate in Surrey for holidays so that we could visit the pubs there and cause a scene without much worry about gossip."

At that, Hermione blushed a bit despite herself, and Ron and Harry exchanged amused glances before she continued. 

"On one such holiday, Draco Black showed up on Harry's doorstep claiming to be a traveling musician with his ‘sister’ Pansy. They asked if they could stop in and perform for us a while in exchange for food and lodging for a night, and, well, we figured there couldn't be any harm in it. Both of them were quite talented, and Harry and Draco in particular became fast friends, Harry going even so far as to offer to let the two of them stay in a house that had been recently abandoned and extend an open invitation to them any time they wanted to perform for him again. Needless to say, they accepted, and Harry and Draco became quite… fond of one another."

Harry snorted, his expression bitter. “It was nothing so tame as that. I fell arse-over-tit in love with Draco. He was witty, clever, charming, and devastatingly handsome— everything I had ever wanted. One day, on a whim, I invited him out for a ride on the steel horses that I’d purchased, and found out that he was also splendid rider despite being part of the commonwealth, but I didn’t think anything more of it after we kissed in the meadow we chose to stop and rest at. We continued seeing each other, and I kept noticing little things, like his posture, his manner of speaking, his hygiene, but I never thought to be suspicious that he was anything other than what he said he was. I was blinded by my passion for him, and eventually, we got married.”

"I’d never seen a happier couple all my life." Ron interjected, shaking his head. "Gave me bloody cavities every time I looked at them.”

"But then, everything changed all at once when we were out for a ride one Sunday,” Harry continued, eyes fixed on the floor. “We were racing, neck and neck, when Draco’s mount stumbled over a root and sent them both crashing down. Obviously, he was injured, his leg badly wounded, but he wouldn’t let me see to him. I ripped off a piece of his shirt at the forearm anyways to staunch the bleeding, where I discovered the Dark Mark there on his left arm.”

Neville’s stomach dropped. The Dark Mark was a brand for convicts that marked them forever as what they were— murderers of the highest caliber who were to be executed for their crimes. Equally perturbed, Robards let out a soft “No,” but Harry spoke on, nowhere near close to the end of his story. 

“I asked him what the hell it was, and he told me I already knew. From there, it only went downhill— he gave me a list of his crimes, told me all that he had done and his justification for it, but then Hermione did the research and found out that he wasn’t Draco Black, but Draco Malfoy, whose name was synonymous with ‘thief,’ ‘murderer,’ ‘liar,’ and ‘cheat.’ He’d murdered my own uncle, Peter Pettigrew, whom Draco claimed had attempted to rape him, but…” Potter swallowed, his voice thick with emotion. “I knew my Uncle Peter. He was a good man. Then and there, I knew I had to put Draco on trial, let a judge and jury decide what was to be done with him. You may think me cold, but it was the right thing to do. I couldn’t very well let a murderer walk my streets in a nobleman’s finery, could I?”

“You could have done, but that’d’ve been bloody stupid,” Ron interjected, and Hermione swatted him for his insensitivity. 

Harry sighed. “In the end, he was convicted of his crimes and sentenced to death by hanging. What could I do? He was my husband, and I loved him, but there was a side of him that I had never truly known at all. He’d done terrible things to even arrive at my lands, things that turned my stomach, and he freely admitted every one to me in earnest. The people decided his fate, and I had no choice— I signed the order, and he was hanged by the neck until he was dead the next morning.”

Neville felt absolutely sick, and Harry pulled off the ring he’d been fidgeting with, tossing it to Neville. Engraved on the sides were beautiful little forget-me-nots, and somehow, Neville felt even worse as he handed the ring back to Harry.

“I’m sorry,” was all Neville could think to say, but Harry waved the response away.

“It was a long time ago,” Harry said, as if that explained everything, or made the burden any easier to bear.

Robards cleared his throat, clearly ready to change topics.

“Well, Neville, lad, you seem to have gotten yourself mixed up in more than you know,” Robards grunted, grabbing a pen and a sheet of paper. “Less than forty-eight hours in London and you’re already having misadventures— sounds exactly like Garrison material. Am I right, soldiers?”

Harry, Ron, and Hermione exchanged glances and nodded their agreement.

Neville gaped. “Are you— Sir, are you absolutely certain that I’m—Well, I mean, I hardly think—”

“You hardly think? Good, you’ll fit right in,” Robards muttered as he scribbled on the page. 

_ I have got to be dreaming,  _ Neville thought, fighting the urge to pinch himself.

“So… does this mean I’m to be a member of The Garrison?”

“Got it in one,” said Robards, still writing. “Of course, you’ll be a cadet for the first six months, but I’m putting the Golden Trio over there in charge of your training, so that means the rules don’t apply to you, not really. Just follow Harry’s lead and you’ll be fine.”

Neville swallowed thickly, wishing briefly that he could write home to his parents and tell them that he was following in their footsteps. “Oh, wow— it’s— this is such an honor, Captain. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. The four of you will be working on discovering the identity of this de Winter, which will be a difficult assignment to say the least. Longbottom, you’re prime bait for de Winter, which is why you’re on the team I’m assigning, but if at any point things go awry, I want you away and out of the line of fire so that the senior members can take care of things. Is that clear?”

Neville nodded. “Crystal.”

“Good. I want you moved into The Garrison post-haste. You lot have got quite a bit of work to do.”

At that, Neville grinned. Work, he could do— he’d always been a hard-worker, dedicated, efficient. Moreover, he was a member of The Garrison now. His life’s ambition had just been realized, and he was now on to better things.


	2. Dies Irae! Dies Illa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo here we meet draco! there's also a murder, a funeral service, a death threat or two, and a wild chase through london. what could be better? (also brief past noncon mention during harry and draco's confrontation, but not between drarry)

_ Six months later _

Draco Malfoy had always been a creature of the cold and the dark. Winter was his favorite season, and thunderstorms were his favorite weather. All the best parts of his work were done at night, in the shadows, where not even the pale light of the moon could reach him— and there was nothing he loved better than his work. 

After all, it was the only thing he had left to love, it seemed. Everything else had been taken from him. 

_ Best not to dwell on it _ , he thought as he heard the faint crunching of boots on gravel.  _ It won't change anything anyways, and I have a job to do tonight that requires my full attention. _

Crouched low behind a merchant's stall in the square, Draco had a wonderful vantage point from which to observe all the late-night comings and goings of that part of London. It was a lazy Friday night, with most folks either home resting or out for a pint with friend— Draco himself would ordinarily have found a nightclub at which to drink and/or shag himself silly, but there was a murder that needed to be committed, and the Cardinal was adamant that it must take place this very evening. 

_ "At half ten, a Garrison escort will be transporting a nobleman through town to take him to one of their safehouses,"  _ Snape had told him from his sickbed earlier that day. _ "If they succeed in their efforts, this nobleman will give them all the information he has from letters that were intercepted from my other agents, and will willingly testify against me to the King. This must not happen. Dispose of the nobleman as quickly and quietly as you can, and there's a thousand Galleons with your name on it." _

Even as he lay dying, the man was concerned only for the fate of England— and thus, there Draco was, a predator lying in wait for his prey to stumble through. 

"Steady there, Dumbledore," muttered a voice that would have been undetectable if it weren't for Draco's  _ ExtendableEar  _ tech planted around the perimeter to sharpen his hearing. Shortly after, Draco caught sight of a Garrison soldier walking alongside a man who was richly clothed in robes not unlike Draco's father used to wear. "We're almost to the safehouse."

All too soon, the soldier and his voice became gut-wrenchingly familiar— that swaggering gait, that kind, considerate tone could belong to none other. Draco had never seen anything like the man before they'd met, and Draco had yet to find his equal since. Harry Potter was truly one of a kind, a special breed of good and kind and wonderful that existed in a league of its own— he was, perhaps, the last of true nobility, the kind whose defining feature was a heart that was larger than their purse.

Yes, Lord Harry Potter was a nobleman indeed— Draco remembered a time when he'd found that quality attractive in a man. Once, that very voice had spoken lowly in Draco's ear, the breath from sweet nothings and candlelight confessions tickling the hair on his neck. Once, Draco would have woken to find that form pressed against him so firmly that it was easy to lose track of where one of them began and the other ended. Once, they had been very happy— young, perhaps, and a bit foolish too, but happy.

Now, Draco was miserable, and he hated Harry Potter and everything he stood for with every atom of his being. 

Slowly, methodically, Draco removed two senbon from his coat, bringing a small potion vial out of a compartment in his arm. Carefully, he dipped them in the vial, one, then two— a moment later, he grabbed a rock from the dirt beside him and tossed it, hoping to distract his quarry.

Potter stopped at the sound of the rock hitting dirt, as Draco had known he would, but he stood solidly between Dumbledore and Draco, blocking any attempt Draco might have had at hitting the man with his needle. Of course, Draco could simply have taken out Potter first, but there was always the chance that the shock of it would allow just enough time for Dumbledore to escape, and no matter what, that could not be allowed to happen. If the Cardinal were found out, that would mean that Draco was out of a job— or even worse. Depending on the content of the letters that were discovered, Draco could possibly be up for execution. Again. 

Draco was left with no choice. He had to kill this man, or else life as he knew it would come to an abrupt halt. Inhaling sharply through his nose, Draco closed his eyes and activated his  _ Legilimens  _ tech. Briefly, he touched Potter's mind— it was open, always so very open— and placed there an intense, instinctive desire to move his head sharply left for just long enough for Draco to make his throw. Less than a second later, Potter jerked hard to the left, and Draco threw the first senbon, catching Dumbledore right in the jugular. Soon, he would die with the poison Draco had chosen coursing through his system— it would be quicker and easier than falling asleep, as merciful a death as Draco could give him.

_ It is finished,  _ Draco thought, and Potter cried out into the black of the night, seeking help. For a moment, Draco lingered, toying with the idea of killing Potter and severing the last threads of his past once and for all— the Draco-that-was would finally be as dead as though he had actually died hanging from that tree in Surrey— but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the genuine desperation in those cries, the unrelenting force of good in Harry Potter that stopped him, or perhaps it was because Draco had always been a coward at heart— but either way, Draco turned from the scene and fled, slipping silently out into the night. 

_ It's not because I love him,  _ Draco told himself as he walked those dark streets, his hood pulled up to cover his face and tell-tale hair.  _ That ship has long since sailed. Even if I had a heart, I wouldn't give it to him.  _

Even so, Draco fingered the leather band that was wrapped around his neck to hide the brutal scar that lingered there, and he wondered if either of them would ever find peace while the other yet lived. Draco figured if Harry ever died, he would only return to haunt Draco as punishment for surviving every attempt to punish him for his crimes— assuming that Potter even gave a damn to start with, which admittedly wasn't very likely. Conversely, Draco decided, were the sole living Malfoy heir to expire, he would rest peacefully in the ground (or underwater, or trampled beneath a steel horse's hooves, or in whatever mess his remains lay). In life, Draco always felt tired. He was always running, working, scheming, plotting— it was exhausting. Death, it seemed, would be a welcome rest, and every now and then, between murder and espionage, Draco would daydream about it. 

_ Maybe it'll be soon. Maybe it'll even be quick and painless.  _

It was with these thoughts and a heavy heart that Draco wandered like a wraith to the nearby cathedral, which was barren of any of its usual loiters, just the way Draco liked it. As silent as the shadows cast upon the walls by candle flame, Draco made his way to the confessional as was his wont. He'd sent word ahead of time, so the usual priest of his choice was there, waiting for him. 

"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," he said through the lattice, kneeling with his head bowed. 

"I doubt any God could forgive you, my son," sighed the priest, and Draco chuckled wryly. 

"But it feels wrong not to say it. Do you want my list of crimes tonight? It's awfully short, and I believe I'm due some forgiveness, since I commit nearly all my sins in service of the Crown."

"Let me guess— was it murder tonight?"

"Yes, quite. How did you know?"

"Call it a Father's intuition."

"Har har, very funny. Where is my payment? Severus should have left you with some."

The lattice slid upwards— for the hundredth time, Draco wondered if all confessional booths had that nifty feature, or just the shady ones built for middle-men handling dirty money— and the bag was handed over to Draco. As cautious as ever, Draco counted the Galleons, and once he was sure the number was accurate, he slid the lattice back down, separating himself from the priest once more.

"Thank you."

The priest grunted. "You know the Cardinal is dying."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"Tonight may be his last night among us."

Draco grimaced. "I know, Father."

"You should go to him."

Draco couldn't fight back his sigh.

"I can't."

"Why?"

"I'm ashamed."

"You're his godchild— he loves you regardless of what you have done."

"That's the problem, though, isn't it? He has to love me  _ in spite  _ of the things I do for him, not because of them. I don't— I don't understand." 

"Some things are not for us to understand, child. Go to him."

"Farewell, Father."

Draco exited the booth with no intention of returning to the palace to be with the Cardinal. Instead, he let his feet carry him withersoever they would, resuming his wraith-like floating about the city as his mind wandered, similarly to his path, in circles.

_ Potter, with his shirt off as he worked alongside the peasants at harvest time.  _

_ Potter with a soft, sleepy smile across a table crowded with their friends, just for Draco . _

_ Potter with his bottom lip between Draco's teeth, his eyes burning with need. _

_ Potter above him, naked, pinning Draco to the bed by his wrists, taking, taking, taking what he wanted, and simultaneously giving Draco everything he needed. _

The wet pavement shone brightly in the full moonlight, and Draco could almost imagine he was peering into the rays of a Surrey sunrise, one he shared with the only man he had ever truly loved. It was there in his mind, just out of reach, that bright summer day where Potter— no, Harry, his  _ husband _ , not his enemy— had fed him watermelon by hand, letting Draco suck lightly on each of his fingers until they were clean from the sticky juices just to do it all over again. God in heaven, it had been so long since anybody had touched Draco with any kind of warmth— he was certain that if Potter were to so much as place a finger on his cheek, Draco would melt entirely from the heat of him alone. 

_ Perhaps that would be the easiest sort of death,  _ Draco mused as he changed course, feeling suddenly tired enough to retire for the night.  _ Much easier than the agony Severus is experiencing.  _

A good while later, as Draco approached the steps of his flat, he recognized the unmistakable tone of the death knell as it reverberated throughout the city, and his heart plummeted. The Cardinal had passed, it would seem— and England was worse for it. Draco's grief was sudden and poignant— he and his godfather had a strange relationship, to be sure, but Severus was the last person alive who truly understood him, and had treated him with kindness even so. More's the pity that Draco couldn't bear to be near the man at his death— no one deserved to die alone, not even Severus— and it broke yet another piece of Draco to realize that he was well and truly alone in the world once more, without even having said a proper goodbye. 

_ It's just as well,  _ Draco thought sourly as he unlocked his door.  _ I probably would have found a way to make things even worse for him than they already were. _

Nevertheless, he planned to be at the funeral when it was held, potential Garrison guard or not— it was the least Draco could do to show Severus the respect he deserved and say a proper farewell to his soul, no matter how much Draco abhorred funerals.

_ Besides, it's not like they'll ask me to do the eulogy or anything,  _ he mused with a wry grin.  _ It's not like anyone knows I exist anyways.  _

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


The day Dumbledore was to be buried, Harry was obligated to attend a different funeral, and it ate him alive from the inside out. 

Naturally, as one of The Garrison's best soldiers, Harry had been assigned to the honor guard for the Cardinal's funeral ceremony. As much a pain in the arse in death as he was in life, the Cardinal's passing required Harry to dress in full formal Garrison regalia, complete with leather armor strapped to his everything and a billowing crimson cape tied to cover one shoulder and attach beneath the opposite arm— in other words, Harry was certain he'd start itching everywhere he couldn't scratch (and likely get the urge to take a piss, which was quite an ordeal in that much armor) as soon as the ceremony began. Alongside him stood Neville and Ron, similarly clothed, and opposite them stood three Red Guard whose hoods were up, preventing them from being recognized by their Garrison counterparts. 

Just when Harry was starting to wonder if it could get  _ any worse  _ as a bead of sweat trickled down his back, the circumstances promptly did just that. 

In broad daylight, in front of God, the King, and every other important man in London, none other than _Draco Malfoy_ walked right into the cathedral as though he owned the place— as though he weren't _dead, cold in his grave!—_ with his head held high and face unobscured as he navigated the crowd.

Deep down, Harry had known that Draco was alive from the moment Neville had described his encounter with de Winter six months ago. The familiar brush of another mind against his own the night of Dumbledore's murder had only been further confirmation of the truth— Draco truly had, by some miracle, survived. And therefore, logically, Harry knew that this might happen, that he might see his dead husband walking the streets of London town, but to experience it like this, in this sacred place, was like being kicked in the chest. 

Of course, it didn't help that Draco was still just as heart-achingly lovely as they day they'd met— in fact, it added insult to the injury of his presence— but Harry couldn't stop himself from looking no matter how hard he tried. 

Draco was dressed in mourning clothes just like everyone else, but somehow, he still managed to stick out like a sore thumb. His shirt was made of pitch-black silk, and was stretched tightly across his chest with silver buttons fastening the fabric on either side so that it would hug his figure  _ just so _ — and as if that wasn't torture enough, he was sporting trousers so tight that Harry wasn't exactly sure that they weren't painted on. Curiously, Draco also wore a silver cravat that rode higher than usual on his neck, obscuring anything— say, a  _ scar _ — that might have been there. 

Oh God, but Harry felt queasy. 

"Harry," Neville murmured beside him, fidgeting slightly, "I don't want to alarm you, but I'm fairly certain that I see—"

"Draco," Harry finished, the name sounding rusty from disuse on his tongue. 

"... Yeah," Neville said lamely, shifting his weight from foot to foot.

The very next moment, as though he could feel their eyes on him, Draco looked over towards the honor guard and his eyes went wide with shock. Immediately, Harry attempted to raise his implanted  _ Occlumency _ shields, but he'd never been good at using them, and Draco had always been a swift bastard whenever he felt the need to be. Not a moment had passed by before Draco's voice was echoing in his mind, and Harry shuddered at the intrusion. 

_ 'Truce, for a moment?'  _ that silky mind-voice implored as their eyes locked.  _ 'He was my godfather.'  _

The image of Draco's nervous scrawl on a sheet of paper floated through Harry's consciousness, followed by Draco wadding it up and throwing it in a wastebasket full of other similarly crumpled papers, and Harry understood— Draco had been asked to speak. 

_ 'Alright,'  _ Harry thought as in-Draco's-direction as he could.  _ 'You have until the ceremony is over.'  _

As loudly as he could manage, Harry conjured the image of himself strangling Draco with his bare hands, and he distantly heard Draco's bitter laughter as he received the mental picture of Draco's clothed erection in response before he finally,  _ finally  _ managed to slam his  _ Occlumency  _ shields up effectively enough to keep Draco  _ out of his fucking head.  _

"Mate, do I need to call a Healer?" Ron asked out of the side of his mouth, clearly having noticed Harry's distress. "You look like you've seen a—"

At that very moment, Ron caught sight of what Harry and Neville had already seen, and he went as white as a sheet.

"—ghost," he choked out miserably, and Neville let out a small, hysterical giggle. 

"You know, really, I suppose he has."

"Very funny, Neville," Harry replied, digging his nails into his palms in concentration to keep his shields in place. "All fun and games when he isn't rifling through  _ your  _ head."

Neville's jaw dropped. "He's a  _ Legilimens _ ?"

"Among other things."

"So what do we do?" Ron asked, ever on the offensive. "Just give the signal and we can have 'Mione arrest him, she's not in all the formal getup."

Harry shook his head. "No. This is a place of peace. We wait until after."

Ron looked displeased, but relented, returning his attention to the crowd, scanning for anything suspicious that might be going on like they were supposed to be doing in the first place. 

That done, Harry closed his eyes, wishing like hell he were anywhere else in the world. 

Despite all of Harry's horrible expectations, the funeral went rather well. Snape was a sonofabitch, but he only ever did what he thought was best for England. He was extremely loyal, and would have done anything to ensure the protection of the throne (including but not limited to bribery, murder, theft, arson, and blackmail). Truth be told, there were even some times where Snape and Robards— and therefore the Garrison and the Red Guard by proxy— were able to work together for the same cause. The only trouble was when Snape's opinion of the way things should be and Robard's opinion of the way things should be differed, and it was just poor luck that that specific outcome happened to occur most often. Really, just because Harry didn't like the man didn't mean that he couldn't understand and appreciate the important role he played at court, and he was secretly sort of glad that the funeral was quite lovely.

… Even if the most beautiful part was the eulogy given by his should-have-been-dead husband. 

As expected, Draco had taken his place at the front of the crowd with ease and a distinct sort of grace that Harry now knew to be the trained confidence of an aristocrat and a politician. What Harry  _ hadn't  _ expected was for Draco's shoulders to droop ever so slightly as he smoothed out his crumpled notes, or for Draco to appear as though he had been crying, with puffy cheeks and bloodshot eyes accompanying his raw nose. With what seemed to be monumental effort at the time, he'd readjusted the microphone to suit his height and began to speak. 

"I would like to begin by reading to you from the book of Lamentations," Draco said, his voice low and husky as he spoke, and slowly, softly, he began to read. 

_ "And thou hast removed my soul far off from peace: I forgat prosperity, and I said, My strength and my hope is perished from the Lord. Remembering mine affliction and my misery, the wormwood and the gall— My soul hath them still in remembrance, and is humbled in me. _

_ "This I recall to my mind; therefore have I hope. It is of the Lord's mercies that we are not consumed, because his compassions fail not. They are new every morning: great is Thy faithfulness. _

_ "The Lord is my portion, saith my soul; therefore will I hope in him. The Lord is good unto them that wait for him, to the soul that seeketh him." _

After a brief pause, Draco spoke again, this time a bit less shaky and a little more self-assured. 

"Severus Snape was my godfather," he told the crowd, looking out among them as though searching the souls of each person thoroughly with his eyes alone. "When I heard the bell toll on the night of his death, I was filled with grief. You see, when I was cast out, disowned by my family, disgraced by… by my other relations, the Cardinal took me under his wing, cared for me, showed me how to move forward with my life. He was the only family I had left on earth, and losing him was a blow that seemed too unfair to be true. It left my soul weary, and my burden cumbersome.

"Many of you may feel the same way. The Cardinal was an excellent example to all, a great man of God who served his King to the best of his ability— his death is a blow to all of England, and I feel the loss as acutely as any. When I was at my lowest point, the Cardinal was a blessing to me; perhaps, in His wisdom, God almighty may yet use this blow and turn it into an opportunity for a blessing. My godfather had an unfailing, unshakeable faith, and he was ever seeking the face of God in his endeavors— in the end, one can never know what that faith brought to fruition, but I like to think that it was a testament to his strength and character.

"I close with this— weeping may endure through the night, but joy comes in the morning."

There were tissues and tears all around.

Of course, it was all bollocks in Harry's opinion— after all, what kind of lying, murdering bastard could talk so righteously about God and heaven and not be taking the piss?— but that didn't mean it wasn't artfully  _ crafted  _ bollocks. There was hardly a dry eye in the room, and Harry found himself affected by the way the words rolled off Draco's tongue alone, marvelling at how his voice was still full of melted chocolate and rich velvet after all these years. 

All the feelings Harry had thought he'd buried rose up and threatened to choke him, but the moment the service ended, he knew what he had to do. 

As Draco slipped out the back, Harry was muscling his way through the crowd, using his arm like a battering ram to shove sniffling mourners aside. By the time he'd made it outside, Draco was sitting astride a steel horse— wait, that was  _ Harry's  _ steel horse!— holding on tight as the damn thing rose up on its hind legs and took off at a gallop with Draco grinning like a fool as he let out a wild "Hyah!"

A little brush against Harry's mind only added fuel to the fires of his fury:

_ 'Catch me if you can, Potter.'  _

Without a moment's hesitation, Harry grabbed the reins of Ron's horse and swung into the saddle before taking off after the man like a shot. Onlookers gasped and whispered to one another, but Harry couldn't care less what they thought— Draco Malfoy (or Black, or Potter, or de Winter, or whoever in the hell he was these days) had been a pain in in his ass for a very, very long time, and Harry was determined that would all end today, even if it killed him. 

Always one turn behind, a single second too slow, Harry pursued Draco. For a while, Harry had held off drawing his firearm, hoping to overtake Draco and subdue him without unnecessary force, but the way things were going, he had no choice— Draco was never going to come quietly anyway, and Harry couldn't afford for him to run loose. With that thought in mind, Harry drew his pistol and set his aim straight for the canister on the back of the horse that contained its fuel, and in one rather spectacular shot, Harry shattered the canister and sent Draco flying off the front of his horse at the abrupt stop.

As Harry dismounted, Draco let out a low groan, and Harry wasted no time in grabbing the  _ Veritaserum  _ potion Hermionehad prepared from him some weeks ago for interrogation from his breast pocket. None too gently, Harry rolled Draco onto his back, and, ignoring the scrapes on Draco's face and hands from the fall he'd taken, Harry administered the potion before activating the  _ Incarcerous  _ tech in his left hand to bind the other man securely in order to prevent any unexpected escape attempts.

Even so, Harry kept his gun trained on Draco, just in case.

"Kinky fucker," Draco croaked, and Harry's desire to kick his teeth increased exponentially. 

"How are you still alive?" Harry growled, and Draco laughed, his eyes a sharp silver in the light of day. 

"Laura cut me down after everyone got tired of watching me kick and strangle— said no one believed her when she was raped either."

Laura was the butcher's daughter, just a teenager at the time. Harry felt sick at the thought of her betrayal, but he could hardly blame her— she was only a child, and had no clue what kind of monster she was unleashing. 

"So you still maintain that my uncle tried to assault you?"

Draco's eyes flashed murderously, and Harry had no doubt that if Draco had been free, Harry would be six feet under sooner rather than later. "The word is  _ rape,  _ Potter, and yes, I do. I only just escaped with my honor and my life intact— if I hadn't killed him, he'd have left me bleeding in the street. Would you like to see it firsthand?"

Harry really, really wouldn't, but a sharp pain bloomed behind his eyes as he was forced to watch the sickening memory of his Uncle Peter leering, stalking,  _ groping _ Draco, escalating in his crimes until Draco managed to get his hands on a rock big enough to smash a man's face in and do just that— again, and again, and again. That's how the authorities found Draco that day, blood all over his hands and tears on his cheeks as he knelt beside Harry's uncle, beside his own assailant, weeping bitterly for the innocence he had lost. 

Then, just as suddenly as the memory had come, it retreated, leaving Harry devastated in its wake. 

"Why didn't you show me— or anyone else— that during your trials?" The question was out of Harry's mouth before he could stop it.

This… this changed everything. This meant that everything Draco had told him back then was true. This meant that Harry's ire had been badly misplaced the entire time, and that he'd probably made the monster that was scowling at him this very moment.

Hell, faced with the same circumstances, Harry might want to kill everyone he came in contact with too. 

"Because, you should have believed me anyway," Draco growled, unaware of Harry's internal turmoil. "And, in case you've forgotten, I was forbidden from using my  _ Legilimency  _ tech in case I wanted to manipulate anyone covertly. Really, you should remember, they stuck a four-inch syringe in my temple to block it. Oh, that's right, you weren't there for that— you were sulking in your big, fancy house like a  _ coward. _ "

"I was  _ heartbroken!"  _ Harry roared, his pulse like thunder in his own ears. "I had just found out that I had never even known the man I loved more than life itself— I married a fucking stranger!"

"You married _me,_ " Draco hissed, struggling to sit up against his bonds. "I never lied to you about anything that was important, you half-witted oaf. I loved you! Why wasn't that enough?"

Something within Harry snapped at that. He couldn't handle this, any of it— victim or no, Draco Malfoy was still a liar and a fraud, and that self-righteous tone he was taking cut Harry to the bone "You are not  _ capable _ of love. How many times a day did you have to cover that mark of yours with a potion or cream? Were you ever going to tell me?" 

Draco grit his teeth. "Three to four times. And no, not if I could help it."

About that time, the click-clack of horses' hooves could be heard approaching them, but Harry was scraped too raw emotionally to pay it any mind at all. 

"Who is de Winter?" Harry asked lowly, knowing his time was running out before the  _ Veritaserum  _ wore off. 

Draco's grin was like a shark's. "My late husband, a Frenchman, and lover to the queen. Of course, our marriage wasn't binding since you and I still have that pesky marriage contract, but it served me well enough at the time. After all, what better way to blackmail Her Majesty than with love letters to someone other than the king?"

Harry saw red. "You heartless, lying, manipulative  _ bastard _ ."

"Hm, quite. If it helps you, I gave the poor man an easy end once he outlived his usefulness— he wasn't really all that terrible, and I rather like my new last name. Quite fitting, isn't it?"

The clanking of steel horses was finally too loud to ignore, and without looking away from Draco, Harry knew his friends had come after him.

"Harry," Hermione's voice called softly behind him as she dismounted, walking slowly closer. "Put the gun down."

"I should kill him," Harry replied, locking his jaw. "If we let him loose, he'll only hurt more people."

"If we bring him back to The Garrison, we can get him to talk," Ron suggested, and his heavy hand settled on Harry's shoulder. "There's no need to kill him twice. Might not even stay dead this time either."

"I've already got him under  _ Veritaserum, _ " Harry replied, shrugging away from Ron's touch. "I know everything we need to know."

At that, Neville cleared his throat. "Harry, you don't want this on your conscience. It nearly destroyed you once, you said so yourself— put the gun down, and we'll work this out."

Harry looked hard at Draco, at the beautiful face of the man he had once loved, and he knew what he had to do. 

"I need to be alone."

Hermione sighed. "Harry—"

"Leave us!"

Once Harry was sure they had gone, he tucked away his gun, pulling a knife from his boot instead. Fear rolled off of Draco in waves as Harry viciously yanked away his cravat, and Draco closed his eyes as if waiting for a killing strike.

Luckily for Draco, that strike wouldn't come— Harry was in a merciful mood, and even if he hadn't been, he was too preoccupied with studying what lay beneath that ridiculously posh cravat to give very much of a damn about anything else. 

Exactly as Harry had expected, thick, silvery scar tissue wrapped around Draco's neck. It was jagged and angry, and it seemed to frown at Harry accusingly as if to say,  _ 'You! You did this!'  _ Harry moved closer, and Draco inhaled sharply, likely expecting the cold bite of metal against his throat, but it never came— instead, Harry found himself pressing a soft, gentle kiss on the scar, right next to Draco's adam's apple. At the touch, Draco let out a soft keen, and Harry's heart gave a heavy lurch as he remembered that Draco's neck really was quite sensitive. 

"I'm sorry," he said, and he meant it. 

Methodically, he cut Draco's bonds, freeing him entirely— however, before Harry let him up, he pressed the edge of his knife right against the scar on Draco's neck and spoke plainly with a tone that brooked no argument. 

"You will leave England. I don't care where you go, what you do, but if I ever see you causing trouble on British soil ever again, I'll kill you on sight. Is that clear?"

Slowly, Draco nodded, and Harry helped him to his feet. 

"Take this. You'll need it to start over somewhere else."

Harry pressed a coin purse into Draco's hand, only to have it all thrown back at him along with a vicious snarl.

"I don't want your  _ charity, _ " Draco hissed, and Harry flinched as the money was shoved into his chest. "The last thing I need is a handout from  _ Saint fucking Potter. _ "

"It's not charity, it's me taking care of my husband," Harry snapped, but offered up the money again anyways. "It's my duty to see that you're looked after, no matter how at odds we might be."

All of that was true— no matter how fucked up their relationship was, they technically  _ were  _ still married, and there was a time when Harry loved nothing more than to spend his Galleons on Draco. More so than that, though, there was a small part of Harry that recoiled at the thought of Draco fleeing the country without the funds to do so and eat as well. Nobility or not, Harry knew what it was like to starve, and he wouldn't wish that fate on anyone.

However, as usual, his generosity was badly misplaced.

"I'm not your husband, you pillock. Get that money out of my face before I  _ Incendio  _ it."

With that, Draco turned and walked away, his head held imperiously high. Ironically, any passer-by would have thought that Draco had dictated the terms of their parting with how bold he seemed— to any outside gaze, Harry probably appeared to be weaker, submissive, just taking whatever abuse was thrown at him, when in fact it was just the opposite. At first glance, no one would know that Draco was a spy and an assassin, or that Harry was a brave, loyal soldier. To them, it would seem that Harry was a lover bitterly rejected, and Draco the lovely, if perhaps a bit bratty, object of Harry's misplaced affection.

No matter. Harry had done what was right, and that was all that mattered. What others thought held no weight with him— at the end of the day, there was only the honorable and the dishonorable, and Harry liked to think he was part of the former. 

_ Be well, Draco,  _ he thought as he turned his back to his husband's retreating figure.  _ May whatever god you believe in bless and keep you…  _

_ Well, far away from me, at least. _

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Draco was just barely able to make it to Pansy's flat before collapsing on her kitchen floor. 

He was shaking all over as he reached for the Firewhiskey she kept on the island, and his hands refused to steady even as he turned up the bottle and took three long swallows from it without so much as flinching at the burn. He needed Pansy, needed Blaise, needed both of them, either of them— he needed anything but to be alone with his thoughts. 

Alone with the searing image of glass-green eyes filled with rage and righteous disdain.

Draco had thought himself ready to see Harry again, knowing it would probably happen at some point. London wasn't so big that they wouldn't eventually bump into one another (especially since it was sort of Draco's job to make Harry's life difficult more often than not), and Draco had made his peace with it. After all, he'd expected Harry to treat him the way Harry treated all things he disliked— with cold indifference, a sort of apathy that one would have towards an offensively ugly piece of furniture. Needless to say, that wasn't what had happened at all, and Draco was entirely unprepared to be on the receiving end of the full force of Harry's emotions.

It had been all too easy to forget what Harry was like when he was angry— of course, Draco had remembered what his temper was like in a passive sense, but to actively experience that explosion of white-hot fury, that thunderous, terrifying strength… it was too much. Harry could have crushed him like a bug at any moment, sending so much electric discharge into the air that he fried everything else in his immediate vicinity as well— a side-effect of being so ridiculously powerful— but instead he'd run Draco down, chased him like prey. And, because Harry Potter was nothing if not an apex predator, he got exactly what he wanted and left nothing but bare bones behind.

Draco took another gulp of Firewhiskey, even though he could barely breathe and would probably choke himself to death if he wasn't careful. 

Fuck, but Harry was still gorgeous when he was angry. And when he wasn't. It was bloody unfair.

Just as Draco remembered, that sun-darkened skin literally glowed golden with the tech that hummed beneath it, and those eyes— oh, those beautiful, wildly intense eyes— were every bit as green as they were in his dreams. Harry radiated power, strength, and intensity like he always had, and now, thanks to his soldiering lifestyle, his once thin and wiry frame was now thick with bulging muscles that rolled and shifted as he moved. If Draco hadn't been so busy fearing for his life, he might've drooled a bit over the way that uniform fit perfectly to Harry's form, cutting an imposing figure among even the roughest of men.

Oh, who was he kidding, he  _ had  _ drooled a bit, perhaps even  _ because  _ of the mortal peril thing. After all, Draco had always been a bit twisted that way, and really, after being chased, captured, tied down, and then kissed so gently like that, who could blame him? The line between hunting for sex and hunting for the kill was blurred for most animals at the best of times, and who was to say that humans were any different? 

Whatever the case, that small, chaste kiss to his throat left Draco feeling horrendously raw, as though he'd been scraped from the inside out. 

Truthfully, that small touch had broken something loose inside Draco— at that moment, he might have done anything Harry asked of him. Without a second thought, Draco would have yielded, let Harry do whatever he wished, even if that was fucking Draco quick and dry right there in the middle of the street, or flogging him senseless before taking pleasure from his mouth. Draco could practically hear the praise Harry would have murmured in his ear— _ "You're so beautiful, my love, look at you taking my cock so well _ , _ "  _ and  _ "Fuck, the way you look in my bed— I could kiss, suck, lick you for hours and never be tired so long as you looked like that." _

Had they been lovers still, Harry might even have said,  _ "I love you, my dragon. Come lay with me awhile, and let me kiss every gorgeous inch of you." _

The front door to Pansy's flat opened, then closed again, and Pansy swore as she realized that her kitchen floor was occupied. 

"Oh, Draco," she said, taking in the scrapes on his face and the bottle in his hand. "What the hell happened?"

"Harry," he replied simply, and Pansy lowered herself to the floor with him, leaning her head on his shoulder. 

"Well, you're alive— we both know that had to be on purpose— so it couldn't have gone that badly, could it?"

Draco huffed a laugh. "He kissed the scar, Pansy. Said he was sorry."

There was silence for a moment as she processed those words. 

"Does he think 'sorry' fixes it?"

"He also told me to leave the country, and that if he ever saw me on British soil again he'd kill me on sight."

Pansy sighed. "That's more like the Potter we know."

Gently, Pansy pried Draco's fingers off of her bottle of Firewhiskey and returned it to the island. She didn't say anything more, didn't press for details, but she did run her fingers through the back of Draco's hair just like he liked, and hummed a vaguely familiar melody as they sat together. Not for the first time, Draco desperately wished that he weren't arse-over-tit for Potter, and that Pansy had a cock. She understood him more than anyone else he'd ever met, and he loved her dearly— she was his best friend and soulmate, all rolled into one.

"What are you going to do?" Pansy asked after a while, having squirmed close enough to be half in Draco's lap. 

Draco thought for a moment. He actually hadn't made a decision about that, what with his emotional crisis, but he probably should put some thought to it sooner rather than later.

"I don't know. I suppose I could flee to France again."

Draco really, really hated France. 

Pansy shrugged. "Or you could just stay."

"And have Harry kill me again? No thanks."

"Or you could make yourself untouchable."

Draco leaned forward, studying Pansy's faux-innocent face. 

"How?"

Pansy smirked, tapping the Crest on her Red Guard uniform. "Blaise and I overheard His Majesty say that he wants to go to a peasant tavern for a night, that the Cardinal's death made him realize that he needed to live life while he still had it. If you managed to win the king's favor, you'd be footloose and fancy-free."

The cogs in Draco's mind began to turn. Since Severus had passed, Draco would need a new job anyways— if he played his cards exactly right with this, he might never have to work again. He could live a life of relative peace, and more than that, Harry would be powerless to stop him. 

"I'm listening."

"It would be a damn shame if someone tried to murder the king on his night out," Pansy mused, chewing indelicately on a nail. "It'd be even more of a shame if you just so  _ happened  _ to rescue the king at the last minute while Blaise and I arrest (and then pretend to terminate) whoever we hired to make the attempt."

Draco barked a laugh. "That's mental, Pansy. If anything went the  _ slightest  _ bit wrong, myself or someone else could  _ die. _ "

"The higher the risk, the higher the reward."

Well, Draco couldn't argue with that. 

"Let's say that I agree to this barking mad plan. Who could we  _ possibly  _ hire to play the role we need?"

Pansy's answer was immediate. "Greg."

Draco couldn't argue with that either, actually. 

"... We'll see," Draco sighed. 

"Sleep on it," said Pansy, patting his head. "Speaking of which, let's clean you up and let you take a nap. I'm pretty sure there's still gravel in your face."

Draco grimaced, but allowed himself to be dragged to Pansy's bathroom to let her play nurse for a while. 

"This is ridiculous," she tutted as she picked tiny rocks out of Draco's face and hands with a pair of tweezers. "Do me a favor and stay  _ away  _ from your husband until you've managed to find someone to protect you, yeah?"

"No promises," Draco muttered.

If Harry was a flame, Draco was a moth— there would never be a time when Draco wouldn't want to fly straight into him the moment he appeared, no matter how self-destructive that might be.


	3. Deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i added a thing to the tags. it's kind of important, especially to this chapter, to go take a peek! i don't want to explain it too much because i find it a bit off-putting, so i wont say anything more :) it's such a small detail that I honestly forgot that it was a thing, but it is, so

Neville hadn't seen Harry angry very often, but the few times he had, he'd been terrified. 

The first time he'd seen Harry flip his lid, they'd been on assignment in Scotland. A black market arms and tech dealer had shot Hermione in the back, somehow having nicked a small pistol from the pile the rest of them had made despite being handcuffed. No one was fast enough to activate any shielding tech before the bullet reached her, and it caught her right between her ribs. Neville's instant reaction was to tend to her, since he had the greatest amount of meditech, healing potions, and healing experience from growing up on the farm— Harry's had been to subconsciously extend the high-voltage claws of the now-outlawed  _ Cruciatus  _ tech from his fingers and rip out the dealer's throat with them. The  _ Cruciatus  _ tech, originally meant only to torture and not to kill as Harry had used it, ensured that the man's death was painful, but even as Neville agreed that the man got what he deserved, it was horrifying to watch Harry toss the ripped handful of throat aside and wipe his hand on his denims as though it was nothing. Neville had wanted to say something, anything, but the look on Harry's face could have curdled milk, so Neville kept silent and stuck to saving Hermione's life. 

The second time, it was only Ron, Neville, and Harry on assignment together, since Hermione was still recovering. It was a simple escort mission, taking the queen's sister back to her estate, but it had gone tits-up when a terrible storm prevented further travel for a week or so. Suddenly crammed into one decently large room at a nearby inn with nothing to do, tensions ran high among both the escorts and the escorted, and one day while Harry and Neville were taking a break from they others, they just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time— or perhaps the right place at the right time, depending on perspective.

_ "When do you think the weather will let up?" Neville asked as they walked near the inn's storage shelter, taking the same path they took on their nightly rounds. _

_ "Dunno," Harry replied, turning his ear towards the shed. "Say, Nev, do you hear something?" _

Neville hadn't, but Harry strode forwards into the shed anyways. What they found there still turned Neville's stomach whenever he thought about it.

Backed into a corner was the innkeep, who was usually a sturdy, unflappable young woman, but she was shaking and her lip was split. Caging her in was a man Neville had never seen before, but given the fact that he had a thick chain wrapped around one hand, Neville could've guessed that he hadn't stopped in to say hello.

Harry hadn't paused a moment before he'd grabbed another chain off of the wall and slung it around the man's neck like a garrote. For a while, they struggled, but it hadn't taken long for the fight to leave the man's body— the instant his opponent went limp, Harry snapped his neck in one fluid motion before asking the innkeep what had happened. 

From those two experiences, Neville gathered that Harry had a natural killing instinct. His rage was usually equated with bloodshed, and he had a talent for swift and total destruction that Neville had never seen the equal of. It was in equal parts terrifying and comforting— comforting in that should anything happen, Harry was coiled tight like a spring, ready for action at any moment, but terrifying in that Neville wasn't exactly sure that killing instinct could be suppressed when necessary. 

The third time Neville saw Harry angry, well… the man's restraint was tested beyond anything Neville thought that anyone could handle. 

After the Cardinal's funeral, the king had been insistent upon having a pub crawl, spewing some nonsense about living while he was still alive— however, insist as His Majesty might, Robards refused to allow it until the selected locations had been thoroughly searched, monitored, and approved before anything was set in stone. It took a month to plan, and even then, no one besides the king himself felt particularly confident that it would go well. Nevertheless, the pub crawl took place, much against the wishes of anyone with more than three brain cells, and Neville, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were all assigned to protective detail, as well as two of the Red Guard. 

At first, everything went as smoothly— the first three pubs were actually a bit enjoyable, and, spending about an hour at each, the king seemed to be having fun, even if he did come off as a bit of a lunatic to the locals. Strangely enough, even after the novelty of the experience wore off, the fourth pub was downright tolerable, in no small part due to the fact that the king was sloshed enough to be pleased with whatever came his way. Predictably, it was the last stop of the night that proved to be the most disastrous, and Neville couldn't have hand-picked a worse way to end the outing. 

The fifth and final venue was the cabaret at which Harry, Hermione, and Ron had their (in)famous skirmish with the Red Guard the night before Neville had arrived at The Garrison. It was a nice little place, despite its reputation, and Neville had to really concentrate to keep his eyes busy looking for threats and  _ not  _ at the one dancer that kept winking at him. 

"They couldn't put more lights in here?" Ron grumbled as he scanned the place yet again. "There's so many little hidey-holes and dark corners for a bad guy to lurk in."

And then, as if on cue, an otherwise ordinary-looking man ran screaming towards the king with a knife.

All four members of the Garrison were on the move in an instant, but Neville knew that none of them would be fast enough. There wouldn't be any help from the two Red Guard either— they were posted outside, controlling who had access to the building— and there was simply no way for anyone to reach the king in time. 

_ "No!"  _ Neville heard Harry scream, and then, as though conjured by that single syllable of acute distress, a bystander intercepted the would-be assassin, clotheslining him in a truly lovely display of apparently nonchalant strength and agility. 

Only, it wasn't just any bystander— the hood of the hero fell away, revealing unmistakable white-blond hair and fine-boned features that Neville would know anywhere. Too busy apprehending the king's assailant, Harry didn't notice straightaway who it was that had done the saving— but once the situation was handed nicely over to the Red Guard, Harry turned his attention to where Neville's had been. Immediately upon recognizing the smug face of Draco (Malfoy? Black? Potter? de Winter? Who knew anymore?), Harry began to shake with the force of his rage, and his face contorted into something between shock and a snarl.

Absolutely certain that he was about to witness a bloodbath, Neville reached out and touched Harry's shoulder, only to be shrugged off rather violently.

"Oh, how exciting!" cried the king, clapping his hands together. "I've just been saved by a peasant! However might I thank you?"

Draco bowed lowly, the picture of humility and grace. It made Neville a bit sick to witness.

"I would ask nothing of Your Majesty. Being graced with your presence is more than someone of my ilk deserves."

The king frowned, perturbed. "Why, I can't imagine what you mean by that— you’re only a peasant to my knowledge, nothing worse. Do explain yourself."

God's crooked nose, was that a real blush on Draco's cheek? What the bloody hell kind of genetic freak could lie biologically? 

"I am ashamed to say, Majesty," Draco replied, averting his gaze.

Neville could practically feel the heat from Harry's glare as it bore into Draco, and he briefly wondered if it was too late to go back to his farm.

"There is no room for shame here! What could someone as lovely as you have to be ashamed of?"

Without further ado, Draco pulled up the sleeve of his left forearm, displaying the Dark Mark in full view even while his smokey eyes were wide and innocent. The sheer audacity of the action was enough to make Hermione gasp sharply before Ron slapped a hand across her mouth to muffle her protests. 

"You see, Majesty, I was wrongfully accused of committing a crime, and instead of serving my death sentence, I chose to flee, like a coward. I was the son of a lord, a powerful man indeed, but I only brought shame upon myself and my family when I ran." Draco swallowed, his black leather choker moving with the action. "I am not worthy of Your Majesty's favor."

_ He doesn't know the half of it,  _ Neville thought, but the king merely took Draco's hand in his own. 

"I hereby pardon you, my savior. By my decree, none shall ever harm you. What is your name, my beauty?"

"Draco de Winter, sire."

Beside Neville, Harry made a slight choking noise, and he grabbed one of Harry's arms to hold him back, just in case. 

The king— obviously wine-drunk and as enraptured by Draco as any man had ever been— smiled warmly. "Draco— may I call you Draco?— you'll come with me to the palace tonight, and I'll write your pardon this very evening. Is there nothing else I can do for you? Surely this is the least of what you deserve for your troubles."

At that, Draco smiled— a sharp, sickeningly sweet thing— and he brushed back a lock of hair from the king's face. Anyone else might have been thrown in the stocks for something so presumptuous, but the king leaned into the touch as though it were the best thing he'd ever felt. 

"Only one thing, sire. Tonight, might I perform for you at the palace? I dance, I sing, and I play the violin, among other things, and it's always been my dream to give my best acts to one of your sacred bloodline."

"Ron," Harry muttered through gritted teeth. "Did you know my dear cousin Dud was gay? I didn't. You'd think I'd know that, wouldn't you?"

All of a sudden, Neville remembered the quite important detail that the king— Dudley Dursley— was, in fact, Harry's cousin on his mother's side. Somehow, it made the situation even more fucked up than it already was, and Neville wished the floor would just open up and swallow them all whole. 

"He may not be gay in so many words…" Ron shook his head, looking a bit green. "Maybe he's straight with a dash of Draco-sexual?"

_ Aren’t we all?  _ thought Neville, but refrained from saying so just in case Harry decided the cabaret could use a new bloodstain on the carpet.

"Splendid, splendid!" The king grinned, standing abruptly from his chair. "We'll go there now. Come, my brave lads, let's return home and have some more food and wine with our entertainment!"

Draco slipped one hand around the king's arm, his fingers curling like a python might slither. "One moment, my liege— I must retrieve my costumes. I cannot perform for you as I am. Only the best will do."

The king beamed. 

Hermione, after shoving Ron's hand away from her mouth, proved herself once more to be the brightest, most insightful warrior of her age— quicker than a man could blink, she swiped a bottle of wine from a table and handed it to Ron, who handed it to Harry, who drank from it like a man dying of thirst. Neville couldn't blame him, not really, and even took a gulp from it himself when Harry passed the last dregs of it to him. The way Neville saw it, it was medicinal, for the health and preserved lifespan of everyone involved. 

"Well," Ron sighed, pulling a jellybean out of his uniform pocket to shove in his mouth, "This is going to be a long night."

As Ron had predicted, the walk to the palace would ordinarily have been a short one, but listening to Draco kiss arse the entire time made it feel like an eternity. Hermione, bless her, chattered her head off talking to Harry about any and everything she could to distract him from what was in front of them, but her efforts were in vain— Harry seemed lost inside himself, his expressions ranging from furious, to hurt, fearful, to dreading in and endless loop. Neville didn't know what to make of any of it, so he stayed quiet and tried not to do anything that might irritate anyone. 

"I'll need a moment to prepare before I perform," Neville overheard Draco say as they entered one of the larger drawing rooms available for entertainment. "As I said, I simply must change out of this garb, and I have a fantastic idea. Do you mind, Majesty?"

"Of course not," replied the king with a benevolent smile. "The anticipation will just make the experience all the more sweet."

Like some sort of trickster fae, Draco drifted across the way to a little changing room that no one seemed to wonder how he knew the location of. Ron grumbled something under his breath about 'pointy-faced slag,' and Hermione elbowed him, but Harry was as silent as a corpse and as gray as a storm cloud, reacting to no one and nothing. 

Perhaps that was why Neville nearly jumped three feet in the air when Harry let loose a growl after having caught sight of Draco in his new attire— but, once again, Neville couldn't find it within himself to blame the man as his own eyes fell on Draco's figure.

Miles and miles of pale, creamy skin was exposed to the October chill of the palace, raising gooseflesh all over Draco's body. For a top, he wore nothing but a golden collar to disguise his scar, from which dangled loops of gold chain that flashed blindingly as they caught the light— they were so long and so many that they brushed against his small, brown nipples, which were already pert from the cold, and drew attention downwards toward the exposed trail of golden hair that eventually ended at Draco's belt of golden tassels. 

And, with the exception of ankle-length strips of vermilion fabric that hung from the front and back of the belt—and gold anklets with little bells— that was  _ all  _ Draco was wearing.

Padding around on his bare feet, Draco walked over to one of the Red Guard on duty— a petite, dark-haired young woman about their age— and handed her the violin he carried, whispering something in her ear. Whatever it was, she nodded with a vicious smile and followed Draco into the drawing room. Reluctantly, Neville trailed in after them, and Harry followed right behind, still uncharacteristically silent except for his earlier momentary lapse in control. 

"Majesty." Draco bowed low, and the king practically squealed with delight. "For my first performance, I'd like to beg your permission for the use of one of your guards— I knew Pansy in my youth, and she plays the violin excellently. The dance I wish to share with you is  _ much  _ better if my hands are left free to move, but only with your permission will I make use of the talent in the room."

"Whatever you wish, my dear Draco, you shall have," the king replied, offering Draco his ring to kiss. 

"My most humble thanks," Draco murmured, pressing his lips to cold metal, and then he nodded to the Red Guard— Pansy, Neville assumed— and she began to play a soft, silky melody that reminded Neville of the snake charmers that used to come 'round when the carnival was in town. 

Ironically, Neville figured that this song and dance was meant to charm some snakes alright, but only the kind that most often lived in trousers.

Draco began the dance with his arms spread wide, but bent at the elbow. Slowly at first, he moved his hips and stomach in hypnotic waves and sensual swaying, as though to tempt a lover to come over and grab him by those curiously round hips and grind against him— then, following the music, his movements sped up, his body rolling and writhing and giving little shimmies as the music intensified. When the violin reached a crescendo, so did Draco, leaping and twisting with incredible strength for someone so thin. It was as though his body was nothing but fluid— boneless, flexible, yet full of power and grace. Neville had never seen such elegance before in his life, and he could only imagine how it made poor Harry feel to behold such a wonder in someone he doubtless found so vile. 

"What a beauty you are, Draco de Winter!" The king murmured almost to himself, echoing every thought in the room. 

Harry was as taught as a bowstring, his hands balled into white-knuckled fists at his side. Neville wondered if Draco was speaking to him through his  _ Legilimency—  _ he certainly seemed to be glancing Harry's way an awful lot, and every time he did, Harry seemed to lose a bit more color. 

"I've got to get the fuck out of here," Harry announced suddenly, and without another word, he turned on his heel and left, completely unnoticed by anyone except Neville, Ron, and Hermione, who each gave each other worried glances before Hermione slipped out to follow him, telling the remaining two to give their excuses to the king. 

"Well, at least Harry's separated himself from this mess for now," Neville commented out of the side of his mouth, and Ron shrugged.

"I don't know that he has. I think he lives in it, mate. In my humble opinion, it's only a matter of time before he snaps like a rubber band stretched too thin and kills the lot of us, Draco and His Majesty included."

Neville shuddered. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, then." 

Ron shrugged once more— his favorite gesture. "Not sure we'll like the alternative better. I'd rather stick with what we bloody know, even if that means Harry blasting us all to smithereens."

As Neville watched the king pull Draco into a lewd kiss, he was almost inclined to agree. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


Harry should have killed Draco the moment their eyes met in that cabaret, just like he'd promised to do. Sure, Harry would probably have been locked away in Azkaban, but at least he'd have been free of that beautiful, heartless, ice-cold wretch of a husband for good. 

Watching Dudley, that stupid, spoiled, ridiculous brat drool all over Draco was nigh unbearable, and being forced to endure that fucking dance with Draco wearing the silks that  _ Harry had bought for him  _ made bile rise in his throat. Harry wanted nothing more than to sling Draco over his shoulder and carry him back to The Garrison and— and— fuck, Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to kill him or fuck him— and that was  _ before  _ Draco burst into his head like a bull in a china shop. 

_ 'Fix your face, Potter,'  _ that smug voice drawled with a particularly rough snap of Draco's hips.  _ 'Hate me if you wish, but you should at least try to hide it better. Jealousy is  _ such _ an ugly emotion, after all.' _

Harry hadn't said anything back, only pushed the rage-sick feeling he'd been fighting all night towards Draco as loudly as he could. 

_ 'Very well,' _ came Draco's reply, and Harry had been a bit pleased to note that it was significantly softer than before, as though he'd been shocked.  _ 'But I suppose it's only fair that you know you're actually allowed to enjoy the show too, no matter your feelings towards the circumstances.' _

Harry had fled after that. He'd been certain his blood pressure was nearing stroke levels, and to hear Draco's voice so soft and intimate in his head was intolerable. Thankfully, his departure had been largely ignored, but, as expected, Hermione exited the drawing room shortly after, her face pinched with worry.

"What happened?" she asked, and the floodgates opened as Harry told her all that had transpired inside his head. 

"Oh, Harry," she said, wrapping her arms around him. "I'm so sorry."

He let her hold him for a time, and it felt like she was holding him together to keep him from falling apart— it felt like she was always doing that, providing herself as Harry's anchor in the midst of a storm. For the better part of a minute, they stayed together like that, and it was only when Hermione complained about her arms going numb from holding him so tight that they separated. 

"Are you sure you're alright?" She asked, her dark eyes patient and searching. 

Honestly? Harry wasn't alright in the least. He wasn't sure what gutted him the most— the fact that Draco was still in England, that he'd wormed his way into Dudley's favor (and probably his bed, if Harry was reading things correctly), or that Harry was so  _ painfully _ jealous despite the fact that anything between he and Draco had ended years ago— but he  _ did  _ know that he felt the incredible urge to fling himself off the nearest cliff, which was about as far from alright as a person could be, really.

Still, he didn't want Hermione to worry, so he slapped on a smile and told her he was fine, just a bit drained.

"Take care of yourself, Harry," she told him, turning to reenter the drawing room. "You should go back to The Garrison now and get some rest. I'll give everyone your excuses and check in on you in the morning, yeah?"

Harry thanked her, and started out on his short journey to The Garrison, which was fortunately less than a block away. Once he'd made it home, Harry succumbed to his exhaustion, falling fast asleep as soon as his body hit the mattress— he always had possessed a talent for instant sleep— and, if only Harry could have stayed that way and slept the night through undisturbed, he might have come out marginally better. 

Unfortunately, he'd never been that lucky. Not long after he'd drifted off, Harry startled awake once more, covered in sweat and sporting a rather insistent erection that bordered on painful. 

_ 'Finally,'  _ Draco's voice drawled inside Harry's head.  _ 'I thought you'd never wake up.' _

The haze of sleep still hung like a heavy cloud around Harry's consciousness, but the edges were blurred with familiar silhouettes of a blond head leaning against a dark one, which turned to vignettes of a pair of lovers that seemed too much like a mirror that showed what the observer most desired. Images of the lovers continued to flash, featuring sleepy good morning kisses, intense love-making, and brilliant smiles, and Harry very nearly allowed himself to enjoy the experience until he was lucid enough to realize  _ exactly  _ what it was he was seeing.

_ 'Get the fuck out of my head,'  _ he snarled, too tired to pull up his  _ Occlumency  _ shields, but too awake to allow Draco to rifle around in his thoughts.

_ 'No.' _

All at once, Harry was assaulted with the startlingly vivid mental image of Draco stroking himself to hardness, and Harry's cock gave a traitorous twitch in response. 

Harry sent back the image of him slugging Draco as hard as he could, and immediately felt irrationally guilty, despite Draco's dark chuckle. 

_ 'Draco, this isn't fucking funny.' _

Harry deeply, desperately hoped his mental voice wasn't as shaky as his physical one would have been. 

_ 'Do you really think I'm laughing?' _

A vision of Draco naked, bound, and gagged followed the question, and Harry groaned aloud as mind-Draco's eyes met his, saliva wetting his lips prettily. 

_ 'Why?'  _ was the only coherent thought Harry could form, and he felt Draco frown through the connection. 

_ 'Because I'm making myself a glorified whore for your truly disgusting cousin, and if I want to be successful in procuring a roof over my head and food to eat from him, I've got to be able to get it up for long enough to bugger him senseless.' _

Harry felt sick at the thought of Dudley in  _ any  _ sexual context, but the thought of Dudley and Draco specifically was truly gag-worthy. 

_ 'There are other ways to find employment, why not try those? And what, you can't get it up for the most powerful man in the country? I thought power was your kink.' _

Harry hadn't been expecting the rush of pure anger that washed over him, or the image of Draco's marred forearm that was hammered painfully into his mind. 

_ 'I fucking tried, Potter, for years before I met you. No one will hire a murderer. I even tried regular, honest whoring, but as it turns out, no one wants to pay real money for damaged goods. And to answer your other question— you and I both know what kind of power gets me off.'  _

Just in case Harry didn't remember, Draco sent a memory of the first time they'd had sex— a particularly wild romp that had taken place mere moments after Harry had faced off with a neighboring lord. For reasons Harry couldn't quite remember, he'd thrown said neighbor down down a flight of stairs and told him in no uncertain terms that unless he wanted every single field on his property burned and all his private estates razed to the ground, he'd not show his face anywhere near Harry's lands again, after which Draco had promptly dragged him by the front of his shirt to the nearest bedroom and had his way with him.

Well… even Harry could admit that it was quite a fond memory, tainted by the present though it might have been.

_ 'Well, alright, I suppose, but why should I help you? I promised to kill you if I saw you here again, and I don't see how it's my problem that you can't get it up for Dud.'  _

If Draco had a tail, it might have swished. 

_ 'Because I'll make it good for you too.' _

A moment later, Harry nearly fell off the bed at the sucking sensation of a mouth around his cock, and he could feel Draco's self-satisfied smirk brush against his thoughts like the soft, silky slide of a fluffy cat against skin. 

_ 'What the fuck was that?'  _ Harry asked, trying to keep his eyes from rolling back in his head from another long suck.

_ 'Me remembering the sensation of a blowjob and sharing it with you,'  _ came Draco's reply.  _ 'Now are you in or are you out?' _

Harry wanted very badly to be out. All he wanted was to have a nice wank and go back to sleep, his head free of any outside influence. Being in was a  _ horrible  _ idea, possibly the worst anyone had ever had. It would surely end in disaster— clearly, the best thing for Harry to do was to shut this whole fucked up conversation down before it went any further. 

_ 'I'm in.' _

It really was too bad that Harry almost never did what was best for him. 

With that, Draco's desire washed over Harry like a wave crashing against the sea shore. Ever the opportunist, Draco wasted no time in shoving a fantasy Harry's way, enveloping them both in the roles he'd laid out for them.

In the fantasy, Draco was naked except for a brown leather collar over his scar— a collar that Harry somehow knew had been given to him by fantasy-Harry to claim Draco as his own. Fantasy-Harry (who was also somehow sharing a body with real-Harry) was fully clothed in his formal Garrison uniform, and Draco knelt before him, licking his boots in a stunning show of perfect submission. 

Harry let out an embarrassingly loud whine and pushed his own influence into the fantasy, pulling Draco roughly to his feet and kissing him wetly, sucking on the currently leathery taste of Draco's tongue like it was the sweetest of nectars. In turn, Draco's hands found their way into Harry's hair, pulling them ever closer to one another by the wild locks in his fists— something Draco  _ must  _ have remembered would drive Harry wild.

_'Yes, that's_ _it,'_ Draco murmured, moving his lips down to suck at Harry's neck. _'Give into it. Show me what you want.'_

Without further prelude, Harry stopped resisting his desire and let his hands wander, grasping Draco's cock to find himself marveling at the startlingly real sensation of that silky hardness in his hand. Draco let out a velvet moan against his neck, and Harry couldn't help but shiver. It was good, so good— it was everything Harry hadn't known he'd been missing. 

_ 'I want to fuck you,'  _ Harry growled, and Draco shocked him by pushing him into a chair that hadn't previously been there. Swiftly and without asking, Draco borrowed from Harry's  _ Incarcerous  _ tech to tie him there— an asinine move, if Harry was honest, but an ingenious one that brought forth layers upon layers of filthy memories nonetheless.

_ 'If you want to fuck me, you're going to have to earn it.' _

Kneeling, Draco laid his head on one of Harry's thighs, and Harry thought he might melt with the heat of that silver gaze on him. Given their positions, one might think that Harry was the one with the upper hand— whether Harry was tied to a chair or not, it was still Draco who was on his knees— but Harry had been in this sort of situation one too many times to believe anything other than that Draco was in complete control. He knew what kind of torturous pleasure that sinful mouth could bring, and just how little Draco cared how badly Harry wanted to come. Oh yes… for the foreseeable future, Harry and his cock were at Draco's mercy. 

_ 'What's your safe word?'  _ Draco asked, those star-bright eyes meeting Harry's as he pressed the heel of his palm against Harry's painfully hard cock, eliciting a gasp. 

_ 'Snitch,'  _ Harry managed, and Draco's smile in response was positively feral. 

_ 'Good.'  _

Draco opened Harry's trousers, pulling them down far enough to expose the erection straining in his boxers.  _ 'I'm going to suck you now. You won't come until I say, and you'll watch me open myself for you whenever  _ I  _ see fit. Your begging will determine whether or not you get to fuck me tonight. Do you understand?' _

_ 'Yes,'  _ Harry replied, breathless despite being in a made-up body inside Draco's mind.  _ 'Yes, please, I want it, want  _ you. _ ' _

Draco's smirk flitted across his features for a moment, but proved itself short-lived as his lips were stretched wide around Harry's cock. 

Fuck, but Draco was fantastic at sucking cock. His mouth was hot and wet against Harry's flesh, and the teasing of his tongue would be Harry's undoing. Harry had forgotten what it was like to be with someone who completely, incontestably  _ knew  _ him inside and out, someone who had taken the time to learn and memorize every inch of him by taking him apart over and over again, each time a different way— but now, faced with the sensation of Draco's mouth on his balls while that lily-white hand milked his cock, he was forced to remember every way in which Draco Malfoy was superior to any lover he'd ever had. 

_ 'Oh God, Draco, I'm going to come,'  _ he hissed frantically as his hips bucked upwards, choking Draco slightly on his length.  _ 'Please, please let me come.' _

Torturously, Draco drew back, resting his weight on his ankles. 

_ 'I thought you wanted to fuck me,'  _ he drawled, those damned mischievous eyes lustfully raking over Harry's figure. 

_ 'I did— I do— just— fuck. Please, Draco, anything, I'll give you anything.' _

After…  _ after,  _ Harry had sworn never to beg like that for anyone ever again. Having bared that much of himself to a man he'd only thought he'd known had nearly destroyed him the first time, and he'd resolved never to be that vulnerable again, never to give up that much of his dignity to another living soul. Now, tied to a chair with his leaking cock hanging out of his pants, he saw what a foolish notion that had been. Against Draco's heady temptations, Harry's resolve was little more than a crisp autumn leaf beneath Draco's heel— when given even half a chance, he'd fallen right back into his old pattern of giving Draco anything and everything he wanted, as though there had never been any other option to begin with. 

_ 'Good things come to those who wait,'  _ Draco said, shifting to his hands and knees,  _ 'And if you can't beg any better than that, then you'll be waiting a long fucking time.' _

With that, Draco took a bottle of oil from a compartment in his arm (when the fuck had that gotten there anyways?) and slicked two fingers before plunging them into his hole for Harry to watch. 

_ 'Fuck,'  _ Harry choked out, and Draco groaned. 

_ 'Only if you beg me for it.' _

In for a knut, in for a Galleon, Harry supposed. 

_ 'God, Draco, what you do to me,'  _ Harry breathed, watching Draco work himself open.  _ 'I'll be so good for you, I'll do any position, whatever you choose, I won't even come in you even though I want to because I know you don't like how it feels. I swear Draco, please just let me inside you, I want to fuck you so bad.' _

Draco let out a whine, and Harry knew he was getting closer to getting his way. 

_ 'Come on, sweetheart, let me free so I can put my fingers in you, open you up so you don't have to bend in half to do it. You've always liked my hands, you even let me make you come with only my fingers once or twice, do you remember? I can make it so good, you know I can.' _

To Harry's shock, the bindings fell loose from his hands, and he didn't waste a second before he pounced on Draco, grabbing the oil and slicking four fingers with it.

_ 'Fuck yes,'  _ Draco hissed as Harry slid in three, rocking back against him.  _ 'Just like that, fuck.' _

Slowly, methodically, Harry watched his fingers push in and pull out, curling them to tease at Draco's prostate  _ just so _ to keep the man on his toes. By the time Draco was ready for a fourth— because he  _ would  _ need a fourth if he wanted to take Harry's girth— he had nearly lost all of the haughty superiority that lent him strength and patience to be a Dom, and had reverted to his much-more-natural state of pliant pillow princess. 

_ 'Fuck, I'm ready, just put it in,'  _ he groaned as he loosened ever so slightly around Harry's fourth finger.  _ 'I want your cock, Potter, do you hear me?' _

Harry, hadn't, in fact, initially heard Draco— he'd been lost in watching Draco's hole as it fluttered and flexed, so pink and pretty around his fingers. However, if he'd ever known anything at all, Harry knew what that tone of voice meant from Draco— it was his "fuck me like you mean it" voice, and Harry was all too happy to comply. 

_ 'Oh, fucking hell that's good,'  _ Draco keened as Harry pushed in.  _ 'Fuck, fuck, fuck, you feel so perfect.' _

Harry was doing his best to stay present and attentive, but his mind was completely and utterly focused on the impossible tightness around his cock. It had been so long since he'd felt anything like this that it was hard not to immediately begin pistoning his hips instead of giving Draco time to adjust— and Draco himself certainly wasn't helping Harry's self-restraint as he rocked back, fucking himself on Harry's cock. 

_ 'Did you forget how this works, or are you being deliberately obtuse?' _ Draco sniped, viciously jabbing at Harry's mind with his desire.  _ 'Fuck me already, you bafoon, or I'll find someone else to do it.' _

At that, something inside Harry snapped. He wasn't certain if it was the insults, the bratty tone he'd come to associate with a masochistic Draco, or the jealousy that reared its ugly head at the mention of finding someone else, but whatever it was, it spurred him into action, leaving all thoughts belonging to a considerate lover behind. He thrust roughly into Draco, who threw his head back and  _ whined  _ with it as his arse clenched. 

_ This is worth it,  _ Harry told himself as they fucked hard and fast.  _ This is worth how much you'll regret it later, worth the time spent hating him and yourself, worth any and everything you can give.  _

_ 'I'm close, so close,'  _ he gasped into Draco's shoulder, where he'd just left a magnificent bruise.  _ 'Gonna come.' _

Abruptly, Draco pulled away, leaving Harry teetering on the edge of his orgasm. With a face like a forest fire— hot and utterly consuming— Draco turned and grabbed Harry's cock by the base, staving off his climax for the moment. 

_ 'You will  _ not  _ come until I give you permission,'  _ he hissed, and Harry began to shake as Draco moved his hand slowly up and down, giving Harry no reprieve.  _ 'If you want to come, you'll do it face-to-face with me, looking into the eyes of the man you've hated for so long. Can you handle that, Potter?' _

_ 'Yes,'  _ Harry replied, still trembling as he tried to remember how to breathe.  _ 'Yes, please Draco, I'll do it, I'll do anything.' _

Draco nodded and released Harry's cock, laying on his back with his arms hooked around his knees. 

_ 'Fuck me, get me off— then and  _ only  _ then are you allowed to come.' _

Harry was as powerless to resist as any man would have been with such a gorgeous creature laid out before him, willing and wanting. He plunged back into Draco's tight, slickened heat and did the one thing he knew with absolute certainty would push Draco closer to his own climax— with a strong, calloused hand, so dark against the ivory of Draco's complexion, he encircled Draco's throat just below his collar and  _ squeezed.  _

Breath play had always been Draco's favorite thing— he loved it so much that it made Harry nervous. That milky-white skin would turn an unhealthy purple with the need for oxygen, but Draco would only press Harry's hand down harder until Harry couldn't take it anymore and relinquished his grip. It was terrifying and exhilarating at the same time, and judging by the way Draco's eyes rolled back in his head, his love for it hadn't diminished in the years they'd been separated. 

_ 'Oh God, that's so good,'  _ Draco choked out as his airways were opening back up.  _ 'Fucking touch me, you stupid, perfect bastard.' _

All it took was three short pulls on Draco's cock before he streaked both their bellies with white, and Harry got off so much just by watching it that he found himself on the edge of his own orgasm. 

_ 'Draco, I'm close again,'  _ he panted, his hips losing all sense of rhythm as he thrust frantically.  _ 'Please, please let me come, I don't know if I can hold out any longer. I've been good for you, I've done everything you asked and more.' _

Draco's eyes met his own, and in an intense moment of intimacy, Draco's hand trailed up Harry's forearm and rested there, his touch as soft and tender as the lover Harry once knew him to be.

_ 'Inside me,'  _ Draco told him, and that was all it took for Harry to go careening off of the edge, spilling into Draco as his vision whited out. 

After he came, Harry hazily brought himself back to reality—  _ real  _ reality, not fantasy reality— only to realize that he'd come untouched in his pants. Draco, who was still present in his mind, chuckled a little, but it felt fond and not at all malicious. 

Truth be told, Harry had expected Draco to sever the connection between them once the fantasy had played out, leaving Harry alone to recover from its intensity alone— instead, Draco stuck around, sending little waves of feeling to Harry as he cleaned himself up. Harry wasn't exactly sure what to make of it, but it felt something like aftercare, like the post-coital snuggling that Draco was so fond of, the needy git. Harry supposed he didn't mind it, not when it felt so good, so comfortingly familiar, so he let it be, choosing yet again not to question what felt right as he let himself relax and drift towards sleep.

_ 'Harry, I have a confession to make.' _

Draco's voice in Harry's mind was quiet and raw, and he sounded almost like the Draco that Harry had fallen in love with. 

_ 'Well, you'd best get on with it,'  _ Harry replied groggily, rubbing at his eyes.  _ 'I'm about to go to sleep.' _

Draco sent a little poke of amusement towards Harry, but continued on without further comment on Harry's exhaustion. 

_ 'I lied when I told you that I don't like the feeling of come in my arse. I… wasn't ready to tell you the truth back then, but I suppose now that you know most all of the truth of me, one little fact more probably wouldn't hurt.'  _

Draco sent along a vision of his father, Lucius Malfoy, speaking with a man in a lab coat. There was some talk about money and experimentation, and Harry didn't exactly understand what it was at first, but then, suddenly, it all made sense, and he clenched his fist in anger.

Yes, rage— Harry's default emotion for things that he didn't know how to deal with. Rage, not at Draco for his deception, not at himself for his own foolishness, but at Draco's  _ father.  _ In the memory— for it  _ was  _ a memory— the man in the lab coat promised millions if the experiment they had been discussing succeeded, and Lucius jumped at the chance, telling the man that his son was useless in all other respects, that he might as well take on the useful traits of a woman if he wasn't going to act like a man.

The useful traits of a woman.

In essence, the  _ reproductive  _ traits of a woman. 

Lucius Malfoy gave his son up to be a lab rat for an experimental surgery that he might not even have survived, and bartered for money in exchange  _ right in front of Draco.  _ Harry could feel Draco's fear in the memory as though it were his own, and all of a sudden he was reminded of the fact that he had never really known his husband at all. 

_ 'How old were you?'  _ He asked gently as the memory faded, and he felt Draco give a mental shrug. 

_ 'Fourteen, fifteen. I supposed after this long you deserved to know, whatever we have become in the interim of our marriage.'  _

Harry tactfully chose to ignore the jump his heart gave at the words "whatever we have become," as though they were anything now except strangers who shared a past.  _ 'So, at any point, it would have been possible… ' _

_ 'Yes.'  _

Harry blinked, stunned. Children. They could have had  _ children.  _

_ 'I think I want to be alone now.'  _

_ 'Very well. Goodnight, Harry.' _

_ 'Goodnight, Draco.' _

After a slight pause, Draco's presence lingered, and just as Harry was about to mind-grumble at him to fuck off, a quiet nudge came through their connection. 

_ 'I don't suppose there's any chance of this happening in person, is there?' _

At that, Harry couldn't help but give a wry laugh. 

_ 'Go to sleep, Draco _ . _ ' _

Finally, Draco withdrew, and Harry was left alone with his thoughts. With any trespassers gone, Harry had thought he might get some rest, but unfortunately, sleep never came. Instead, he was plagued by the idea of what he might have had— a brood of black-haired, silver-eyed darlings, and, perhaps, maybe just one little blonde baby with eyes as green as Harry's mother's had ever been. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


After shagging Dudley while mentally shagging Harry (a truly disconcerting experience), Draco couldn't sleep.

As quickly as he dared, Draco disentangled himself from the sleeping king and slipped out into the night, but not before pulling on whatever clothes he could put his hands on in the darkness of Dudley's chambers. Any other night, he might've been content with just a coat to wrap around himself, or perhaps even as little as a sheet, but something inside Draco needed to wander for a bit, needed to get lost to be found— and, in Draco's alarmingly vast experience, it was much, much better to lose oneself when one is fully clothed than not. 

My, what a mess he had made. 

This absolute disaster had started as a way to gain the king's trust and affections, and thus his protection by proxy. Somehow, it had turned into a  _ 'How close to an aneurysm can I push my (ex?)husband without actually killing him?'  _ contest along the way, and had then been reimagined into a  _ 'Can I still get my (ex?)husband to fuck me?'  _ challenge after all was said and done. 

To be fair though, it wasn't all Draco's fault that things had devolved so quickly— it was also partly Potter's fault for looking at him with such fury, such passion, with such  _ smoldering  _ eyes. How was Draco supposed to ignore the cry of their bodies to one another? How could any man deny such strong chemistry? Even when faced with such fierce anger, the pull was as magnetic as it was unwanted, and Draco had always been weak. 

As if that wasn't bad enough, he knew that it wouldn't stop with just the little mind-fucking they'd done either— that would be too easy. One of them would eventually give in to what they both wanted, and nothing would stop Draco from tasting those full lips once more and feeling those strong, calloused hands on his hips in a too-tight grip. Even the thought of it was all-consuming— so much so that Draco managed to bump right into a wall of solid person even though the streets were empty enough that it would have been nearly impossible not to notice another person there. 

"I beg your pardon, I wasn't looking where I was— oh."

It was then that Draco realized just _whom_ he'd bumped into, and why he'd bumped into them to start with. 

Neville Longbottom stood before him, a rather imposing figure with arms crossed and face fixed into a stony frown. Doubtless, he had been hidden by a cloaking device in order to run a routine patrol until the moment he and Draco collided. 

"Hello,  _ Lord de Winter _ ," said Longbottom, somehow looking down his nose at Draco despite being of shorter stature. "Fancy meeting you here."

Draco hastily raised his mask of haughty indifference, then let it melt into a coy smirk once he realized he could put Longbottom on the back foot rather quickly. "Indeed. Did you enjoy the show earlier, Monsieur Longbottom?"

"You're certainly skilled at what you do," Longbottom replied, but he suddenly looked suitably cautious. "I've never encountered a better liar."

Draco smiled, and despite himself, it was almost rather genuine. "High praise indeed. I thank you. I'll tell you the secret to it if you stand still for long enough."

"I would ask you how you sleep at night, but if this encounter is any indication, you must not."

Longbottom spoke casually, as though he were talking about the weather. There was no anger, no malice, only the slightest tinge of what might have been sympathy. Something about it infuriated Draco, this relative stranger talking to him as if he knew a single fucking thing about Draco or what had brought him to this point in his life, and for the first time since he'd hung by the neck from that tree in Surrey, Draco's mask began to crack without his permission. 

"You speak as though you know  _ anything  _ about the real world, farm boy," Draco shot back, feeling oddly wounded. "You know nothing about me— neither you nor any of your ilk would even try to— and you know nothing about what keeps me up at night. If you did, you wouldn't be able to sleep either."

Longbottom's eyebrows raised. "Hit a sore spot, did I?"

Draco couldn't believe what he was about to say— couldn't believe he was about to waste that much of his breath.

"Carry my yoke for a day and see how little a stain a lie can truly be."

"I wonder about that," Longbottom said, narrowing his eyes. "Every time I look at you, it seems that you have anything a person could want. How can your burden be any heavier than anyone else's, except by your own choosing?"

Draco let out a laugh. What a fool. Perhaps he should have stayed in bed after all. 

"Bold of you to assume that I've ever had a choice even once in my miserable life."

"But you did not so long ago," Longbottom countered. "You could have listened to Harry and left England after he was merciful enough to spare your life. Why didn't you? London is crawling with people that hate you— surely somewhere else would be more suitable."

"I don't have to justify myself to you," Draco growled. "But I'll have you know that England is my home as much as anyone's, and I'll be damned if I'll let Potter or any-fucking-body else take the life I've built for myself away from me."

"A life of murder and deciet?"

"A life where I don't have to worry about where my next meal will come from— a life where I can make use of my skill set and be free to do as I like."

Longbottom frowned. "If what you like is torturing Harry, I'm afraid I can't give you the rubber stamp of approval."

"I was here first," Draco grumbled almost to himself. "If he doesn't like it, he can bloody well leave, and you can take your approval and shove it up next to the stick in your arse."

At that, Longbottom actually cracked a bit of a smile. "You know, ironically enough, I think I like you better when you're lying." 

Draco's face betrayed him— his lips ticked upwards into his own smile, wry though it might have been. "Most people do. I can be rather abrasive, I'm told."

"Truth be known, I can handle abrasive personalities better than thieving ones, but I'm sure that's just personal preference."

_ How shockingly subtle for a man of action,  _ Draco thought to himself as he observed the challenge in Longbottom's eyes.  _ Perhaps I should let him have a surprise of his own.  _

"Ah, yes. That. I really am quite sorry— for what it's worth, I felt awful the whole time you prattled on, all the time thinking I was harmless," Draco replied, sincere in his meaning even if his tone was not. "It was never personal— any member of The Garrison was a potential enemy of mine, and I figured the less of them there were, the more chance there was for my success in the future. Basic maths, really."

Longbottom looked at him as though he'd grown a second head. "You actually mean that, don't you?"

It was at that very moment that Draco realized something was very,  _ very  _ wrong. Neville Longbottom of The Garrison had no reason to be standing in the street in the middle of the night, talking to someone who bore a Dark Mark and had, in fact, stolen his personal property. There was no reason at all, and doing so went against the very nature of The Garrison unless—

Unless— 

Carefully, Draco felt along his left arm, and sure enough, the feathered end of a dart protruded there, likely having pierced through Draco's shirt the moment of their collision. 

"You rotten shit," Draco exclaimed, pulling out the dart and crushing it beneath his shoe with grudging appreciation. "I'm almost impressed."

Longbottom had the grace to flush. "It's not  _ Veritaserum _ . It just makes you a little less likely to have a filter for about an hour or so… and your hair will turn red if you lie, or green if you tell a half-truth." 

"Lovely. Now that the cat's out of the bag, I assume there was something you did want to ask me?" Draco looked Longbottom over and shrugged, figuring it couldn't hurt to be honest. "I probably won't lie to you. I'm intrigued. Anyways, you'd know if I did, which would kind of defeat the point."

"Well," Longbottom said, shifting his weight from foot to foot, "I sort of wanted to know what your intentions in coming to the palace and buggering His Majesty were. Y'know, in case you had, er, nefarious plans in place."

Draco raised a brow. "And your plan was to walk right up and ask me?"

"Er, yes?"

Perhaps rolling his eyes was a bit juvenile, but Draco could hardly help himself. 

"Longbottom, I chose to shag your dear monarch because my idiot friend proposed it, and I was so angry with Potter and disgusted with myself that either way— whether the plan worked or it didn't— I would either die like I was supposed to years ago, or I would get food, lodging, and a little satisfaction from the look of horror on Potter's face. Satisfied?"

Longbottom blinked. "Er, yeah. Sure."

Draco studied Longbottom for a moment, intrigued. For a member of The Garrison, Longbottom seemed so mild-mannered, almost timid— and yet he'd been bold enough to track and drug Draco, who could still probably kill him six different ways within a couple seconds. How intriguing. 

"You really are a lot like them," Draco mused aloud.

"Who?"

Draco allowed himself another wry smile. "Granger, Weasley, and Potter. You're all peas from the same pod."

Longbottom chuckled nervously. "I'm not sure if that's a compliment or an insult."

"A compliment, certainly," Draco replied, his mind stuck in another time. "I was never happier than when I was sharing my life with them as a friend instead of an enemy. You're quite lucky."

"I'll remember that."

Draco nodded. "See that you do."

With that, Draco turned to take his leave, but Longbottom reached out a hand and placed it on Draco's shoulder. 

"Are you okay to walk home?" he asked, his brows knitting together. "You're looking kind of spacey all the sudden. Er, you aren't allergic to anything that could be in that dart, are you?"

"Certainly not." Draco cracked a genuine smile despite himself. "I'm a trained assassin, Longbottom, not a teenage girl— as long as there are no other tossers from The Garrison skulking about, I should be fine."

Longbottom offered his own smile in return. "Well, alright. If you're sure."

"I am."

Draco thought for a moment, then spoke again and Longbottom turned to leave. 

"Longbottom?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

At that, Longbottom flashed a brilliant grin, and Draco turned away, feeling lighter than before. 


	4. All That Rises Must Converge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning! This ends in a cliff hanger. I hate leaving chapters like this especially when I cant post the follow up immediately, but there was literally no other way I could split up the chapters :( so, I'm sorry for that, but I promise that the world will right itself with my next update. Happy reading!

"Oh, Harry," Draco panted, glad there was a solid wall behind him to lean on in case his knees decided to give out. "You are absolutely  _ obscene. _ "

On his knees before Draco, with spit dribbling from his mouth, Harry cracked a carnivorous grin. 

"Must not be obscene enough if you're still able to talk."

Thus saying, Harry rocked forward and redoubled his efforts to suck Draco's brain out through his cock. 

_Death by orgasm can't_ _possibly be that bad,_ Draco thought as Harry's tongue toyed with his slit. _If I had known a quick alleyway shag would have started_ this, _I would have done it ages ago._

Indeed, it had all begun with a shag in the alley across from the Leaky three weeks ago. Harry had been pissed as a newt, and Draco had been rather sleep-deprived, but it was still a brilliant shag all things considered— and, really, between Draco's proclivity to wander at the streets at night and Harry's proclivity to get roaringly drunk and shag his way through London when he was feeling inadequate, Draco might have guessed they'd end up that way, with Draco's face smashed unforgivingly into brick while Harry pounded him from behind. It was all quite in character. The only problem happened to be that Draco was now the _only_ person Harry wanted to shag, and Harry's libido had quite forgotten that they weren't eighteen anymore. 

Well, no matter— when it felt so good, how could he complain?

"Fuck my face, Draco," Harry breathed, letting his hand take over while his mouth took a break. "I want to feel you, taste you for days."

Draco bit back a groan. "God, what you do to me."

"Shut up and do it already, you git!"

Draco gladly complied— and fuck if Harry wasn't as fantastic as he always had been. Never once did he choke or gag, no matter how rough Draco got, never making any sound at all except the filthy slurping of a brilliant blowjob and those gorgeous, sexy little whines that ripped from him when Draco pulled at that wild raven hair with all his strength. So amazingly mind-blowing was the experience that Draco wondered not for the first time since their recent copulation how he had ever enjoyed sleeping with anyone else… 

Then, unfortunately, he remembered the scar around his neck and shook off all thoughts of anything that wasn't the mouth on his cock and the hair between his hands. 

Predictably, Draco didn't last long once he was allowed to set the pace. In less than a minute, he was spilling himself in Harry's mouth, holding his lover's head in place so that not a drop escaped. 

"My turn," Draco declared huskily as he helped Harry to his feet, but Harry shook his head. 

"I have a meeting in… well, now," Harry said sheepishly glancing at his watch. "I can do tonight through  _ Legilimency _ , but I might be tired by then."

Draco nodded, trying not to feel disappointed. To be with Harry was to come second to any and all responsibilities— Draco had known that from the start, but sometimes it still managed to sting him. 

"I understand," Draco said, and Harry kissed him slowly, deeply, tenderly.

"Sorry, love. I'll see you later, yeah?" 

Damn those green eyes, they caught Draco's tongue every time.

"Yeah."

And just like that, Harry was gone, leaving Draco a thoroughly-shagged wreck of a man. 

_ Perhaps that's an adequate metaphor for our relationship,  _ Draco mused, allowing his head to thump against the wall behind him.  _ I end up completely fucked, but hey, at least he really is a brilliant lay. _

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  


"Parkinson."

Potter tipped his head in greeting as he passed, and Pansy schooled her features into an expression of cool indifference instead of the scowl she would normally have affected upon catching the git walking out of a storage closet and readjusting himself like it was completely normal. Knowing exactly what she'd find— mostly because she'd  _ been  _ finding it for the past three weeks— Pansy flung open the door to the storage closet with a heavy heart. 

Draco, who was pulling up his trousers, yelped in surprise, and Pansy fought the urge to roll her eyes. 

"You are going to get yourself executed again," Pansy hissed, stepping in and closing the door behind her. 

Draco sighed, running a hand through his sex-mussed hair. "I know what I'm doing."

When she noticed the stubble burn and handprints around Draco's neck, Pansy wanted to bang her head against the wall.

"No, you clearly don't. You're playing with fire, Draco, and it terrifies me. It should terrify you too."

"Why? Look at me, Pansy, I look the best I've looked in ages— I  _ feel  _ the best I've felt in ages." 

Pansy couldn't really argue there— three weeks of solid sleep, proper nourishment, and time off with no obligations had done Draco well. He was practically glowing with health and happiness, even if he and Potter liked their sex just this side of dangerous. 

"You're paying a steep price for it," she replied, reminding herself that this wasn't a game, no matter how Draco wished to treat it as such. "And putting your fingers in Potter's pie isn't helping anything."

Draco shot her a glare. "I only have to scratch Dudley's itch maybe once or twice a week at most, and really, how is it that much different from what I was doing for Severus? If anything, this is better. And as for Potter, he's a big boy, he can handle himself. We're just having sex— nothing strange or life-threatening about that."

"That's the point, you nitwit! If Dudley finds out—"

"He won't, Pansy."

"If Dudley finds out," she repeated, determined, "he could have you beheaded. He could exile you from the country! And if you think for one second that I believe whatever you and Potter have going on is just fucking, you're sorely mistaken. You two have never been able to be casual where the other is concerned."

Draco fell silent then— a sure sign that Pansy had hit the nail on the head. That must also mean she was correct in assuming there was even  _ more  _ to the story than Draco was telling her.

Fuck. 

Pansy hated it when she was right. 

"Do you need to tell me something I don't already know?" She asked, crossing her arms. 

"Well, yes. No. Fucking hell— it's complicated, alright?"

"Then explain it."

So Draco did. Pansy listened patiently as he described his first night in the palace after having discovered that his  _ Legilimency  _ tech could reach The Garrison thanks to the custom expanders Narcissa had gifted him before… before. Thankfully, Draco spared her the finer details of his literal mind-fuck with Potter, but what he said he'd done afterwards was even more worrisome than brain-sex. 

"You told him about  _ that _ ?"

Draco folded his arms, defensive. "Yes."

"What the hell is wrong with you?!" she cried, shaking him by the shoulders. "You're not  _ safe  _ with that kind of secret out!"

"I—" Draco faltered, and a sharp pain blossomed in Pansy's chest as his expression fell. "I trust him, alright? He's my husband."

Pansy closed her eyes and prayed for patience— for if the good Lord gave her strength, she was going to hit the man in front of her so hard his dead grandfather would feel it. 

"Is this the  _ same  _ husband that didn't take you at your word when you said you were nearly raped? The  _ same _ one who put you on trial for murder? The  _ exact husband that let his people hang you by your neck from a tree?"  _

Once, that would have shaken Draco out of his fit of temporary insanity, but this time he only shook his head.

"You sound like a negative political attack ad from the Old Days."

"Damn right I do! The fucker is a menace!"

Draco sniffed. "Fine then. If you're going to react this badly I won't tell you what else I've told him."

Draco, of course, did tell her, but only after begging, pleading, and just a little bribery.

"You mean to tell me," Pansy said, wondering if this was what an aneurysm felt like, "that you told Potter about  _ our side  _ of the Uprising? About The Dark Lord living in your  _ house _ ? Have you  _ completely  _ lost the fucking plot or have I? Because either you've gone barmy or I'm losing my listening comprehension skills if what you're saying is true!"

"It's only fair that he knows what I've been through," Draco shrugged, though he looked a bit guilty. 

"You don't owe that prick one bloody thing, Draco Malfoy."

Draco sighed, running a hand through that white-blond hair Pany had always been horribly jealous of. "I meant fair to  _ me. _ He's already judged me and sent me to be executed— the least he can do is hear my story, and that's what he's been doing. Well, that and fucking me gormless. I'm trying to get closure… sort of."

Pansy chewed the inside of her cheek to keep from screaming. She'd seen this happen before— she knew all the signs by heart. 

"Draco, you're opening up to him, letting him into the only pieces of you he hasn't seen."

"... That's rather the point, isn't it?"

Honestly, Pansy should get a raise for all the shit she put up with. 

"You're falling for him again, and you can't even see it."

"Pansy—"

"No, don't 'Pansy' me, I've had it," she snapped. "When he breaks your heart— because he  _ will,  _ Draco, given half a chance— I'll be the one picking you up off the floor again and I'm not sure I'm strong enough to go through that a second time."

Tears of anger and frustration welled in her eyes, and Draco pulled her to his chest and held her there. 

"Potter and I are different people now than we were back then," he told her, rubbing soothing circles on her back. "I'm not falling for him, love— I'm walking into him with eyes wide open. You were right, as usual, when you said that he and I couldn't ever manage anything casual. It's for that reason that this has to happen. Neither of us got closure the last go-around, and for us to exist this close in proximity, something had to change. Now, we'll either fuck and fight and tear each other apart, or we fuck and decide that the fighting isn't worth it anymore."

Sweetly, tenderly, Draco brushed a lock of inky-black hair from her face and wiped a tear from her cheek. 

"Tell me you understand," he implored, and Pansy nodded, wiping her nose on her sleeve.

"I do. It doesn't make me want to wipe the floor with your sorry arse any less, but I understand." 

"That's my springtime blossom," Draco grinned, pinching her cheek, and Pansy swatted him away with all the malice she could muster.

"You owe me a bottle of Ogden's for all you put me through," she huffed, but opened the door to the storage closet to let them out. 

"Nothing is ever free with you, is it?"

Pansy laughed. "Of course not. My mother used to call me a filthy harlot and I simply  _ must _ live up to her expectations, you know."

"You mother was a bint," Draco replied easily, as though he were commenting on the state of the weather, and Pansy loved him all the more for it.

"Too bad my father and your mother couldn't have married," Pansy mused. "They didn't deserve the shit they took from their respective partners— although, perhaps it was a blessing in disguise. God knows that no couple in existence could have handled you and I had we been born siblings."

Draco snorted. "That they couldn't. Do you remember that jingle we came up with about your mother's dalmatian coat?" 

"Of course I do, it was bloody genius!"

"And got us grounded for weeks."

"It was worth it when all of us—even Greg and Vincent, the poor fools _ —  _ sang 'My Mummy Was a Cow, Ask Me How' in B-flat after the adults asked us to entertain the guests that evening. I think we might have caused the governor his stroke that day."

"All the better. He was a blight on all the mirrors in the house anyways with that ugly mullet he insisted was fashionably retro."

Pansy laughed at the memory— they used to tell stories about that mullet, how it would crawl off the governor's head and kidnap children at night. 

"So," Draco said, looking at her out of the corner of his eye. "Am I still your best friend?"

Pansy sighed, rolling her eyes upward in mock deliberation. "Hm, how many bottles of forgiveness-Ogden's are we talking?"

"As many as the king's money can buy," Draco laughed.

"Well, when you put it that way, all is forgiven, my darling Draco."

At that, Draco gifted her with a truly rare smile, one that was soft and vulnerable and full of love. "Good. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Grow horrid wrinkles, probably."

"Oh, most assuredly."

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Harry was well and truly fucked, as usual.

For three long weeks, he'd been having sex with his husband. For anyone else, that would have been perfectly fine— normal, even— but given that Harry had tried to kill Draco a time or two, and that Draco had a ridiculous body count (as in  _ actual  _ body count, like a 'people assassinated' sort of body count) it made things between them a bit… complicated. To make matters worse, not only had they been fucking, oh no, they'd also been  _ talking,  _ which, all things considered, might be even worse for Harry's fragile mental state.

Before now, Harry hadn't realized what Draco's life had been like before they were together (which was really Draco's own fault since he chose to lie about it all anyways, but at this point, who was really counting?). For some reason— guilt, perhaps— Draco suddenly saw it fit to put that to rights. Every night (or afternoon, or early morning, depending) that they had sex, Draco would reveal a little bit of himself, of his past, and Harry would listen. At first, it hadn't seemed like much, just a story here and there, but within three weeks, Draco had managed to completely upend the way Harry saw him. 

_ 'Okay, I get all that now,'  _ Harry had told him only a few days ago.  _ 'But how does that line up with my story?' _

And so Draco had drawn the connections for him.

While Harry was still eating scraps off of Dudley's table (which he did during the long years before he came into his inheritance), Draco lived at the very center of society and witnessed the checks and balances of politics first hand. Born and bred an aristocrat, Draco had been educated thoroughly in every aspect of his life— by the time he was ten, he knew how to plan, organize, and decorate for any number of high-class functions, brew nearly any potion (read: poison) in existence, and lie with his body as well as he could with his mouth. From singing and dancing to fencing and fisticuffs, Draco had been trained in everything money could buy— but at the expense of his childhood, which a war and his father snatched from him all too soon

Sometime after Harry had first learned to hold a gun, Draco was finding that Lucius Malfoy was a harsh man, or so Harry gathered from Draco's memories. Lucius' approval was impossible to earn for anyone— anything shy of absolute, unquestionable perfection was unacceptable in his eyes. Despite it all, though, Draco had never stopped striving for Lucius' love and acceptance. He did anything, everything for his father, even allowed him to alter his body forever and drag him into the wrong side of The Uprising. Nothing was too great or too small for Draco to freely offer, and likewise, Lucius never seemed to think anything was too great or too small to demand of him. Right up until the moment of Draco's… incident with Peter Pettigrew, Draco had carried out every task set before him to the best of his ability. 

After the incident, though, everything changed. 

Once Draco had been arrested, tried, and convicted of murder (around the same time that Harry had come into his inheritance), he was of no use to his father, or Lord Voldemort (his father's employer, the traitorous bastard that had attempted to dethrone Dudley's father, Vernon Dursley, and murdered Harry's parents in cold blood nearly two decades ago). Even after he'd escaped prison and fled back to his home in Wiltshire, his father had turned him out with nothing but the clothes on his back and a loaded pistol. 

From there things hadn't gotten any easier for either of them— Harry had been floundering, trying to figure out how to rule, and Draco, beset on every side, had fled, disowned, desolate, and downcast, but fortunately not alone. Pansy Parkinson, his best friend in all the world, followed him into the unknown, having run away from her wealth and family to live through the cold, hungry nights with him. According to Draco, he would have curled up and died in a fit of self-pity long before he met Harry if Pansy hadn't been there, goading him onwards. 

_ 'Fix your face, darling,'  _ she'd tell him after every failed job interview, every night spent sleeping on the ground because they couldn't afford anywhere to stay.  _ 'If we're to die poor, we at least have to die pretty.  _

Needless to say, Pansy and Draco had not died poor, pretty or not, but it was a damn near thing. 

For a while, they were forced to live off the land— and whatever passers-by came along when Draco and Pansy were hungry enough to kill for galleons or supplies— but soon it became evident that lifestyle was simply unsustainable. There was never enough food, never enough money, and though their search for honest work was long and arduous, it yielded precious little. Eventually, there was but one option left, the only useful skill they had retained from their upbringing. 

Deceit. 

Within the span of six months, Draco and Pansy had become the biggest con artists in all of Britain, and had picked up some pretty extraordinary friends (among them Blaise Zabini and Gregory Goyle, two rich and wiley bachelors from influential families) along the way. Eventually, their exploits led them to split up— Zabini and Goyle heading for London to retire in peace, and Pansy and Draco to Surrey, where they had meant to con Harry out of everything he owned. However, things hadn't exactly gone to plan— instead, Zabini and Goyle were commissioned for the Red Guard, and Draco met Harry and (according to him) fell face-first into the dung-pile that was young love. 

The rest was history, but what Harry wanted to know the most escaped his grasp every single time. 

_ What the hell are we doing here, Draco?  _ he longed to ask every time he held him in his arms after an intense round of mind-blowing sex.  _ Who am I to you?  _

But he never gathered the courage to ask, because if those questions were returned, Harry wouldn't have a single clue how to answer them. 

"Sickle for your thoughts," Hermione said, plopping next to him on his couch.

Before Harry had been accosted in the broom closet earlier, he'd been buying snacks for the Golden Trio's weekly movie night. Hermione had come early since she didn't have anything better to do— thankfully, she had a key, so Harry hadn't had to rush off from his tryst to let her in. 

"Waste of a sickle," Harry sighed. 

"I disagree. You've been brooding for weeks. If you won't tell me or Ron, will you please tell someone? Bottling everything up is horrible for you."

Her big brown eyes were worried and pleading, and Harry never could stand to see her upset. 

_ Fuck it, it could be worse,  _ he thought, and decided to take the plunge.

"I've been sleeping with Draco."

Hermione let out a sharp gasp. "But— you two— my God, did you stage all those fights?"

They had, in fact, staged all those fights. Having a public disagreement was Draco's idea at first, just to keep people off their scent— then, quite against their initial intentions, it had turned into something very tongue-in-cheek with insults like 'Suck my dick, Potter!' and 'Get fucked, Malfoy!' Eventually, they began planning fights in great detail just to cause a scene, and it had become great fun, at least for the two of them. 

No, their real fights always took place in private, behind closed doors, and those hurt all the worse because they were usually about the past.

"Er, yes," Harry replied, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Hermione raised her eyes to the ceiling. "Unbelievable. You two have always been strange, but this? Honestly."

Harry let loose a small, sheepish smile. "Well, it actually is quite funny on my side of the fence."

"I'm sure. Is that why you've been moping? Because it's been great fun taking the piss?"

At that, Harry sobered. 

"No, 'Mione, but in between all this, he and I have been… talking."

Hermione raised a dark brow, and Harry sighed, knowing she wanted some elaboration. 

"He's been telling me the truth. About the past, that is. Er, his past."

"And how do you know he's telling the truth?"

Harry shrugged. "I don't, but it just… it feels right. Some of the conversations we have are via  _ Legilimency,  _ so I can literally feel what he's feeling and it just seems legitimate."

Hermione swore. Then she swore again. And again. 

"You're falling for him again," she said with absolute certainty, and Harry shook his head. 

"I think it's past that. I think I never  _ stopped _ loving him, 'Moine."

She sighed. "Oh, Harry."

'Oh Harry' indeed— the floodgates were open now, and Harry couldn't help but spill out everything he'd tried so hard to keep in for the past couple weeks. 

"And the fucked up thing is— besides all of it— is the fact that this whole mess with Dudley is happening and I'm such a jealous fool," he admitted, feeling guilty even thinking about it. "Every time they so much as glance at each other, it makes me want to rip Dudley to shreds, which isn't even fair because  _ I'm _ the other woman. Er, so to speak."

"Are you sure you aren't just having these feelings because you haven't had closure?" Hermione asked, chewing her lip thoughtfully and without even the slightest hint of judgement in her tone, for which Harry was grateful. "Draco is a very charismatic person, and I could see how one could be easily swept away by him even without having all the history there is between you two."

"I dunno, I guess it's possible," Harry sighed. "What do  _ you  _ think?"

Hermione frowned. "I think that when we thought Draco died, he took a part of us with him. We all loved him, Harry, and Pansy too. The fact that you still have lingering feelings is understandable, but I think you should take some time away from him and really evaluate what you feel for him, and whether or not someone that is truly worthy of your affection would hop into your cousin's bed without a second thought."

In that moment, Harry suddenly remembered that Draco had not only been his lover, his  _ husband,  _ but a close friend to Hermione and Ron as well. Before the Draco Fiasco, Draco and Hermione would read books together and rant for hours on whatever the selection of the day was, and Ron and Draco would play chess until the wee hours of the morning because "That's bloody unfair, he  _ has  _ to be cheating, Harry, I know it! I don't suck this bloody much at chess— you've played me and I've kicked your arse every time!" Harry had never even stopped to think that he might not be the only one affected by Draco's death and deceit, but from the way Hermione was looking at him, perhaps he should have. 

"Draco is doing what he thinks he has to," Harry said after a moment of thought. "I think at first it was to spite me, since I told him to flee the country, but it also serves as a protection for him from us and the outside world as well. I understand now what kind of life he's had to lead, and if this  _ thing  _ with Dud gives him a roof over his head and food on his table, I guess I shouldn't be angry."

Hermione nodded, her expression thoughtful. "I still think you should have some time away to think. Maybe just request a short mission to the continent from Robards and take that time to reevaluate." 

Harry's mind wandered briefly to French cafes and Spanish beaches, and he couldn't help but agree.

"You're probably right."

"I always am," Hermione grinned. 

They were silent for a moment, then Harry remembered one small detail.

His best friends were engaged to be married. 

"Hey 'Mione?"

"Yes?"

"Can we not tell Ron about all this just yet? I don't think I'm emotionally prepared for the massive strop this will throw him into." 

Hermione laughed, but agreed. "Alright. I won't say anything, but you know Ron. If he figures it out, I won't deny it."

Harry smiled, grateful. "Thanks."

About ten minutes later, Ron arrived with a party-sized bag of Doritos, ready to leap into whatever sports flick he'd rented— oh how Hermione loathed Ron's turn to pick the movie— but Harry found it difficult to be present with Hermione's words still ringing in his ears. The more he thought about it, the more sense her point made. Harry really  _ did  _ need a holiday away from London, preferably even out of the country, since he hadn't taken a break in the many years since he'd first been commissioned, and having some distance between himself and Draco could prove useful in determining what in the bloody hell was going on. Yes, he decided, a nice, long mission to the continent would do wonders for him— Harry would contact Robards in the morning and that would be that. 

"Did you buy the salsa this time?" Ron asked through his mouthful of corn chips. "You can't watch 'Facing The Giants' with chips and no salsa, it's a classic."

"It's old American rubbish, you mean," Hermione grumbled, and Harry laughed. 

"Yes, I have the salsa. Go get it yourself, I'm comfy."

Ron huffed, albeit fondly, as he padded into the kitchen. "Terrible host, our Harry is, bloody obnoxious."

"Find someone else's piss-stained couch to perch your freckled arse on then!" Harry called after him, and Hermione swatted him.

"What was that for?" Harry whined. "He was being an arse first!"

"Well," Hermione grinned in that I-love-you-to-bits way of hers, "I was hoping if I hit you hard enough, Ron would feel it."

"Oi! I can hear you!"

"You were meant to, you berk!"

Harry shook his head with a smile. How could he have gotten so very lucky? No matter how jumbled his thoughts or how tangled his emotions, Harry knew that he would always have Ron and Hermione to provide mutual love and support— if he were never given anything else in life, he would be content with just that. They were his family, his closest confidantes, and in Harry's humble opinion, no man could possibly ask for anything better. Even if things between Harry and Draco never became anything, Harry would always have his favorite people, and somehow, that was enough. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Spain wasn't nearly as nice as everyone had claimed it would be. 

Granted, Neville hadn't expected this hare-brained mission Harry had requested to be a bed of roses or on a beach in Barcelona, but it still would have been nice not to spend hours at a time staking out a Spanish prison while folded nearly in half to stay out of sight. Well, he supposed he should be grateful that at least it wasn't his turn to do so at the moment— Hermione and Ron were taking their shift while he and Harry took a break at their camp. 

"So explain to me  _ why  _ we're in this Spanish hell-hole again?" Neville asked, peering up at the clouds through the canopy of trees that gave them cover

Harry, who was resting with his head on his duffle bag, shrugged. "To rescue some royal cousin or other."

"Harry,  _ you're  _ one royal cousin or other.

Another shrug, and a sly grin. "I lose track of them all."

They sat in silence for a moment more, then Harry sighed.

"Neville, can I ask you a question?"

Neville chuckled. "Sure, why not? It's not like we have anything better to do."

"Well… it's a bit personal, so I understand if you don't want to answer."

"Harry, spit it out."

Harry exhaled. "Alright then. How do you know if loving someone is a mistake?"

And damn if Neville didn't want to stick his foot directly into his mouth. 

"Is this about anyone in particular?" he ventured, glancing over to where Harry was laying, and Harry shot him a glare.

"Just answer the question, Nev."

Neville chuckled a bit, then really let himself think about his answer. There was no doubt in Neville's mind that Harry would only ask such a question with Draco in mind, which meant that Neville had to form an answer that wouldn't easily be perverted or misconstrued. There was a lot of pressure in that department, after all— Harry was always so serious with any advice given to him, to the point that any little turn of phrase could make all the difference in what Harry decided to do about whatever had prompted the question, and Neville was so notoriously terrible at making decisions in his own love life that he was almost afraid to answer any questions Harry had about  _ his.  _

"Well, I'm no good at love," Neville began, settling for honesty. "I've always been either too much or too little for my partners, without much in between. But if you really want my advice, here's what I think.

"Love comes in all shapes, sizes, and types. Anyone can fall in love, and maybe even have that feeling reciprocated sometimes— it's part of being human, after all— but I think what's most important is what we choose to do with that love once we have it. We can fight it and let that fight consume us, or we can embrace its presence and use it to make ourselves stronger."

Harry hummed. "I think I get what you mean."

Before Neville could form a reply, gunfire sounded in the distance, and he and Harry scrambled to their feet. 

"Do you think we'll have time to stop by a town with a mall?" Harry laughed hysterically as they sprinted towards where Ron and Hermione had likely been found out. Neville was lucky he could even hear the question over the pounding of their boots on the ground

"I dunno, why?"

"I have a few purchases to make! Apology gifts usually keep a fellow from getting his cock hexed off, yeah?"

Neville shook his head. "Harry Potter, you're a mad bastard if you think a trinket will keep Draco from sinking his claws into you for whatever you did."

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Back in London, Draco was miffed. 

Well, that was an understatement. In truth, Draco was a complete nervous wreck, and he was fucking  _ furious  _ about it. 

Two weeks. Potter had been gone for  _ two weeks _ , and there had been nothing— no letter, no note, no bloody fucking  _ voicemail—  _ to indicate where he was, under what circumstances he'd left, or whether or not he was still alive. Draco could admit that he wasn't exactly sure what he and Potter were at the moment, but surely they were  _ something.  _ After all, Draco had been baring his soul to the man, and it wasn't like the git was routinely inconsiderate enough for Draco to dismiss the lack of communication as an oversight— not when Potter was courteous enough to apologize to his fucking roomba any time he nearly stepped on it, and told it 'goodbye' when he was about to leave the flat.

Surely, Draco should have at least equal standing with a roomba, if not above, shouldn't he? The roomba wasn't even sentient, for fuck's sake, and certainly couldn't suck cock half so well as Draco.

Two weeks more, and Draco was becoming more bitter by the minute. Along with the rising bitterness came the startling but terribly probable realization that the bitterness itself was from Draco missing Potter's presence in his bed and in his life, and Draco just barely resisted the urge to throw a massive tantrum at the unfairness of his traitorous heart. 

_ I've been made a fool of again,  _ he thought bitterly, repressing a scowl as Dudley requested to have his shoulders rubbed while on that ridiculous throne of his.  _ Here I am, being jealous of a fucking floor-cleaning robot and worrying myself sick over some piece of Thestral shit that couldn't give less of a flying monkey fuck about me when I have the king— the literal, actual King of fucking England— as my lover! What an idiot I am, a fool, a buffoon! _

Well, perhaps that was a bit extreme. Draco wasn't actually stupid, not really— he was just a bit daft in matters of the heart, and it was the fact that Potter was even considered a 'matter of the heart' that was vexing him so.

"Draco, dear, is something wrong?" Dudley asked, turning to peer up at Draco. "You seem so distant lately. Where do you go inside that head of yours?"

Draco painted on a lovely smile, full of warmth and fondness he would never feel— at least not towards Dudley, anyways. "I'm perfectly fine, Majesty. Just lost in thought— you know how I get."

Dudley hummed. "Sometimes, Draco, I wonder if you aren't lonely."

Draco swallowed thickly, feeling the metaphorical ice beneath his feet start to thin. 

"Pardon?"

"I think you might be lonely. You haven't many friends at court, which you can't really help— beauty is no substitute for breeding, after all— and you pick fights like mad with my cousin Harry, sometimes I think just to get a rise out of him. Is it something more than I can give you that you crave, darling? My wish is to make you exceedingly happy, however I can."

Draco walked around the throne, keeping his face a mask of careful submission even as he internally retched at the thought of what he was about to do. Slowly, with utmost humility, he sank to his knees in front of Dudley, head bowed and eyes downcast. 

"You have my deepest apologies, Majesty," Draco intoned, his eyes tracing the pattern of Dudley's expensive slippers. "I never meant to appear ungrateful— I am deeply indebted to you, sire, more so than I shall ever be able to repay, and now I have made you believe that I am unhappy. I assure you, my liege, I am most content here at your side, and I repent of any injury I have caused you. Oh, I cannot bear the thought!"

The tears pooled freely and naturally in Draco's eyes, and Dudley reached out to wipe them away.

"No, no, no, don't cry, pet— there's been no injury," Dudley soothed, and Draco wanted to gag. "I was only worried for you because I care."

"I don't deserve such care," Draco replied, because it was true. "You're too good to me."

Before Dudley could reply, a horn was blown, heralding the coming of… someone or other, Draco was sure. By the looks of it, Dudley knew whom— smiling like a child at Christmas, he stood from the throne and offered Draco a hand up. 

"Stand up, my love! My men from The Garrison are back from Spain, and with them is a long-lost relative of mine that I'm sure you'll be thrilled to meet. After all, it's not every day you meet someone who's spent the last few years in a Spanish prison, is it?"

"Certainly not," Draco agreed, standing, and a tight coil of anticipation curled in his gut. Something felt terribly wrong about all this— Harry's sudden departure on what was now seeming to be an unprecedented rescue mission to Spain, Dudley's strange fit of excitement at the prospect of a guest he hadn't mentioned to Draco at all in the previous days, the fact that said guest was a  _ relative _ of the crown— and the familiar grip of anxiety tightened around Draco's psyche like a vice as he started to put the pieces together. 

_ A relative of the king,  _ Draco thought as he took Dudley's arm, strolling through the corridors that led to the front of the palace.  _ A relative that would have cause for imprisonment in Spain. The Dark— er,  _ **_he_ ** _ was in Spain, yes, but imprisoned there? Unlikely. Surely, it couldn't be him— he wouldn't dare show his face here, not after last time. _

So why did Draco feel such uneasiness? 

"To the courtyard," Dudley said to Pansy and Blaise, who, having been stationed nearby, fell in to accompany the king out of doors as was custom. They walked along silently, and Draco's heart began to beat faster and faster the closer they got to the gilded doors that led to the courtyard. 

"Oh, this is going to be so lovely," Dudley sighed as Blaise opened the doors, "I can just feel it."

Just as Draco's left foot crossed the threshold of the palace, Potter, Granger, Weasley, and Longbottom came to a halt in front of the fountain, dismounting from their horses. In addition, there was a fifth figure dismounting, one that Draco couldn't identify from so far away. As they came closer, the fifth figure turned, and Draco's blood ran frightfully cold.

Lord Voldemort stood before him, alive and well, but very much changed from the last time Draco had seen him. 

The last time Draco had encountered the Dark Lord, the man was younger, more soft in the face, and still had all his hair. He had been tall back then, even by Malfoy standards, and had instantly commanded the attention of any room he entered—he was a true aristocrat, with a lofty air that rivaled Draco's own father's. Similarly, the Voldemort that stood before Draco now still commanded attention at once, but this time for all the wrong reasons. With age and apparently imprisonment, his skin had become gray and pale, and was sunken in places it had once been rounded— his nose was gone entirely, presumably lost to either torture in Spain or a botched tech surgery, and his shoulders hunched so that his true height was hidden to those who had not known him before. This Voldemort was a horror to look at, seeming almost as dark and inhuman as Draco knew his soul to be, and Draco shivered as Dudley's steps brought them ever closer to him. 

"Tom!" Dudley called out, so cheerful that Draco thought he might sick up, "Tom Marvolo Riddle, I'll be damned. Welcome to court."

Voldemort— for it  _ was  _ Voldemort— grinned, revealing a mouth full of sharp, pointy metal teeth, and Draco's hands trembled as he realized what he had to do. 

_ He has the power to kill us all,  _ Draco thought, wishing like hell he hadn't gotten so careless as to have stopped carrying his poisons with him on a daily basis.  _ He'll recognize me— and Pansy, and probably Blaise as well— and we'll all die under mysterious circumstances with no bodies left to speak of. Next will be The Garrison, probably disbanded or simply bombed to hell and back, and then it'll be Dudley and anyone else who stands in the way of the throne. Unless… _

Draco took a shaky breath.

_ Unless I kill him first.  _

Across the way, Harry was shooting him worried looks, those intense green eyes imploring, ' _ What's wrong?'  _

Draco swallowed thickly and steeled his resolve. 

_ I must succeed,  _ he thought to himself, looking away from Harry in an attempt to hide his fear.  _ I must, or all is lost… but, just in case…  _

Reaching out with his mind, he brushed against Harry's thoughts. 

_ 'I love you,'  _ he said simply, and perhaps a bit selfishly, but if Draco was going to die today it wasn't going to be with the weight of words unspoken bearing down on him in his last moments. 

Harry's eyes went wide with shock, but Draco didn't give him a moment more to react before he grit his teeth and activated his  _ Apparition  _ tech to place himself directly in front of Voldemort before punching him straight in the face. 

The fast travel of the  _ Apparition _ had the intended effect on the force of the punch— Draco's fist hurt like fuck, but Voldemort was sent sprawling on the ground with what was likely a broken jaw. Everyone around him gasped, and Draco thought he heard Harry shout his name, but he paid them all no heed. He wasn't nearly finished making a bloody mess out of everything, and he couldn't afford to be distracted as he landed blow after blow. 

_ Die, you bastard,  _ Draco growled internally before taking that disgusting bald head in his hands and lifting it with every intention of slamming it down onto the concrete hard enough to kill.  _ Die, and wait for me in hell so I can beat the shit out of you there too. _

But that was never meant to be. 

Before Draco got the chance to stain his hands with lifeblood one more time, the sharp pain of a stab wound blossomed in his back, and the fight was over. Beneath him, Voldemort was smiling victoriously, and Draco felt a tear roll down his own cheek. 

_ I've failed,  _ he realized as the world became distant and a bit fuzzy.  _ Perhaps Father had the right of it after all _ .

Draco should have died on Potter's noose while he'd had the chance. Then he wouldn't have had the opportunity to become even more of a disappointment.

_ 'I'm sorry,'  _ he cast out through his  _ Legilimency  _ for anyone and everyone to hear.  _ 'I'm so, so sorry.' _

And he was. He was sorry for not being better, faster, stronger— for not being more open and loving and kind— for not being able to stop whatever fate Voldemort had in mind for the people of England. It was a sincere heartfelt apology to anyone who would accept it, and he let his mental presence linger for as long as his waning strength allowed.

_ This is it, _ he thought as his vision began to fade.  _ My time is up.  _

In those precious few moments before he lost consciousness entirely, Draco could have sworn he felt arms around him, wrapping him in warmth and familiarity. The last thing he was aware of before he succumbed to his pain was the press of leather against his cheek, and a voice in his ear. 

_ "Stay with me,"  _ it pleaded, earnest and desperate, but Draco was already gone. 

  
  
  



	5. Is It Easier to Stay, Is It Easier to Go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so firstly, yes you may crucify me for not posting this sooner. I even had this chapter written already and everything. I offer no excuses, only that I'm a bit distracted and wanted to get another chapter under my belt before I posted this one. That said, I really love you guys, and I hope you enjoy this update!

As Harry held Draco's hand in The Garrison's infirmary, he couldn't help but think that his return to London was supposed to be happier. 

Well, if not happier, then at least a little less like absolute bedlam. 

Draco was supposed to smile knowingly at Harry as they rode in, shooting some sly remark through  _ Legilimency  _ that would drive Harry spare, per usual— they were supposed to meet in secret later where Draco would scold him for running off without a word and Harry would bow and scrape and kiss him into make-up sex before they even had a proper fight. Draco was supposed to have the opportunity to accept the gift that Harry had bought when he and the rest of his team passed through that little Spanish town and he couldn't bear to leave without buying just a little something to bring home.

A little something to show he cared— a little something to ask permission to begin a life-long apology for all the hurt he'd caused Draco. 

Instead, Draco was barely breathing, fighting for his life in a hospital bed (after what Harry could only assume was a truly foolish assassination attempt) while the gorgeous, mahogany leather choker Harry'd purchased burned a hole in his pocket. 

_ "It's not good, Harry,"  _ Luna— The Garrison's best Healer— had said after she'd stabilized Draco, her gloves still red with his blood.  _ "The knife punctured his kidney. He'll make it, thanks to my potions, but recovery will be a long road."  _

In other words, it was a miracle that Draco was even alive, and he probably wouldn't be if Luna weren't such a brilliant Healer. 

_ "When will he wake up?"  _ Harry had asked, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth.

_ "I don't know,"  _ Luna shrugged. _ "We'll just have to wait and see." _

And so, given little choice, Harry grabbed a chair and got to waiting.

During the long hours Harry spent by Draco's side, he had plenty of time to wonder what had possessed Draco— a trained and highly skilled assassin— to attack a high-profile target at high-fucking-noon in the courtyard of the palace, and in front of the king, no less. Surely, he would have known it was foolish. How could he not? And yet Draco had done it anyways, had launched himself at Tom Riddle like some sort of rabid animal, vicious and feral in ways Harry had never imagined him capable of. After all, the Draco Harry knew was subtle, nuanced, and refined in his work— he was nothing like the Draco that had attacked Riddle, nothing like the man that fought with his bare hands like a beast. There were such stark differences between the two that Harry found it incredibly difficult to reconcile one with the other… and yet they were undoubtedly one and the same.

It made Harry wonder what kind of man Tom Riddle must be that Draco felt the need to end Riddle's life even at the risk of his own, and using means that would ordinarily be so far from his character. 

Beside him, Draco shifted, groaned, and then one of the monitoring devices the man was hooked up to started beeping incessantly.

“Draco!” Harry exclaimed, feeling his husband’s hand tighten around his own. “Luna, Draco’s awake! And there’s beeping!”

A few seconds later, Luna popped in and began administering some sort of drug through the IV, and Draco turned his head (for he was lying on his front to avoid aggravating his wound), one gray eye blinking blearily at Harry.

“Oh fucking hell,” Draco sighed, closing the eye once more. “Why the  _ fuck  _ am I alive?”

“I saved you,” Luna replied cheerfully, and Draco groaned once more.

“Fantastic. Next time, fuck off.”

“No. Thanks for the suggestion though! I’m always open to criticism.”

Harry, for his part, couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Of course, he’d known that Draco tended to respond with his baser instincts when he was hurt, lashing out at those who try to help in the same way a fox would bite the hand that sought to remove a thorn from its paw, but Harry had thought that just this once, a near-death experience would have humbled his husband.

Per usual, Harry was dead wrong.

However, hearing something so Draco-esque was both exasperating and endearing, and Harry couldn’t help but feel relief from the massive wad of worry that had formed in his stomach while waiting for Draco to come to. 

“Draco, be nice to Luna. She’s just saved your life,” Harry admonished, running a hand through Draco’s hair. 

Draco huffed. “I didn’t ask her to.”

“No, but I did, and I don’t care how grouchy you are, you’re going to show her respect.”

"It's alright, Harry," Luna interjected with a grin. "After all, if we're splitting hairs, it's technically you who brought him to me in enough time to save, but I figure it's better for him to yell at me than to start a lover's quarrel."

"Too late now," Harry muttered as Draco began to fume. 

_ 'When did you tell her about us?'  _ Draco demanded in his head, glowering silently from the bed.  _ 'You weren't supposed to tell  _ anyone. _ ' _

Harry bit back the urge to groan audibly.  _ 'I didn't. Luna is… special.' _

"Boys, if you're going to argue anyways, do it out loud— I get terribly curious, you know."

Draco's eyes widened comically, and Harry smirked. 

"Told you she was special."

"I'm beginning to see that." Draco closed his eyes, nestling his head deeper into the pillow. He looked exhausted, and Harry wanted nothing more than to climb into bed with him, hold him, and make sure no one ever harmed a single hair on his head ever again. "So, Healer, since you daft lot couldn't let well enough alone and kept me from kicking the bucket, what will I have to do to stop feeling like I've been used for a pincushion?"

"Well, the drug I just put into your IV should help," Luna replied. "It's going to knock you out in a few minutes, and hopefully keep you that way for a while— although, I had hoped my earlier dosage would've sustained you well into tomorrow, but you must have metabolized it pretty quickly."

"Oh yes," Draco huffed. "I'm very resistant to pain remedies of any kind. I'll likely not feel the effects for another hour, and once it does work, the time I'm supposed to be out is generally cut in half."

Luna smiled. "I assume this is intentional?"

"Partly. I have always had a natural resistance, but when I became an assassin and potioneer, being able to metabolize anything that might diminish my mental capacity became of paramount importance, so there is some tech inside me to assist my body's natural reaction."

"Fascinating." Luna was practically glowing with curiosity. "You'll have to tell me about it sometime. Not now, though— I've got other patients to see to, and I believe Harry has something for you."

Harry flushed. Damn Luna and her lack of filter. 

The door clicked behind Luna, and Draco fixed Harry with a look. 

"So you have something for me?"

Harry scratched the back of his neck. "Sort of."

Draco raised a brow, somehow able to appear intimidating even face-down on a hospital bed. "Sort of?"

"You said you love me. Are we just not going to talk about that?"

Harry didn't exactly mean to blurt it out like that, but the question had been nagging him for hours on end. After all, he felt he deserved a bit of an explanation if for no other reason than that Draco had sprung the confession on him in the heat of the moment and then scared the piss out of him by almost dying. 

"I was hoping not," Draco grumbled, closing his eyes. "I'm too tired for this conversation."

Harry sighed. "It doesn't have to be a conversation. Just tell me whether or not you meant what you said."

Draco opened his eyes then, and Harry was taken aback by the sheer force of the emotions written all over his face. 

"I did." 

Harry sat in silence, allowing Draco's reply to process in his head. 

"So why were you hoping not to discuss it?"

"Well, loving you hasn't ever really worked out in my favor, has it?" Draco grumbled into his pillow, and if Harry didn't know any better, he'd say the git was  _ embarrassed _ . As if they weren't married— as if he didn't know that Harry was barmy for him. "And there's the little matter of your blatant disregard for me, as evidenced in the way you took off for the fucking continent without so much as a text— don't think I've forgotten that for a moment. I'm only too tired to lecture you properly now or your ear would be in flames."

Harry chuckled despite himself. "I knew you'd be pissed about that."

Draco growled something that sounded suspiciously like "fucking roomba" into his pillow, and Harry ran his fingers through Draco's silky-soft hair, aiming to soothe the sting of his own deliberate neglect. 

"I am sorry, you know," Harry said, drumming his fingers absentmindedly against Draco's scalp. "I even brought you back a 'don't murder me' present from Spain— though how Luna figured that one out, I'll never know."

Draco lifted his head. "A present?"

It was almost hilarious how much he perked up at the prospect of a gift. Harry might not have always known that Draco was a spoilt brat, but that eagerness to be given even the smallest of baubles was a trait that was impossible for Draco to hide, and one that had amused Harry right from the start. 

"Yes," Harry affirmed, thinking of the leather choker in his pocket and the beautifully rendered forget-me-nots he'd asked the boy at the leather shop to brand into the material. "I'll give it to you soon, but you need to rest now."

Draco pouted, which should have been next to impossible with his face pressed into a pillow. "But  _ Harry _ , you can at least show it to me now, or you could even just tell me, you know, as an incentive to heal more quickly. What did you get for me?"

"Nope, you only get my present once you can sit up in bed and really appreciate it."

"I hate you," Draco huffed, but his body relaxed into the mattress in a way that belied his enduring irritation. 

"Hate me all you like, but you're going to rest even if I have to make Luna break out her heavy-duty potions for it to happen."

Harry, having been on the receiving end of said heavy-duty potions, knew just how well they worked, heightened resistance or not. 

"Will you stay with me?"

The question hit Harry like a punch to the gut. 

"Of course I will. Someone has to make sure you don't roll off the bed in the night."

Draco opened his eyes just to roll them. "It was  _ one _ time, and years ago."

"One time is enough for me to be concerned," Harry chuckled. "But, for the record, I would have stayed anyways."

At that, Draco shuddered, and Harry squeezed his shoulder lightly.

"Rest now. I'm not going anywhere."

For once, Draco did as he was told, and Harry put his feet up on the small table they were provided with and brought out his mobile to play games while he waited. 

  
  
  


***

  
  


One of the many reasons Draco hated pain potions was that they always gave him horrific dreams. His sleep was plagued with images from the war, with the screams of those tortured so cruelly in his own home— often, he woke gasping for air and covered in sweat, only to find himself face-down on the mattress he'd fallen asleep on with Harry snoring away in the chair beside him. Other times, Harry would shake him awake, his expression fraught with worry, and they would talk through those nightmares the way Draco had so longed to do from the very start of their marriage. If Draco closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that they were those same people that they were back then, young and in love and  _ happy _ — but then, as inexorable as the tide, the realization that Harry hadn't said he loved Draco back would come, and Draco would sink back into the melancholy he was prone to succumb to. 

In addition to his horrific mood swings, Draco also found himself grappling with bone-deep fear the likes of which he hadn't felt since he was a child. Voldemort was back, and as much as Draco tried to pretend otherwise, he likely knew exactly where Draco was down to the room number, and doubtless was plotting his revenge with every breath Draco took. No one got away with visiting harm on the Dark Lord— not even a former favorite son of his rebellion. 

Draco tried not to think about it, because it gave him the shakes and spiked his heart rate so high that Harry had to call Luna in to administer a Calming Draught.

On the bright side, Draco was recovering rather quickly from what would have been a mortal wound. After three days, he tried sitting up, and after two more, he began to walk around like a human again, although he was a far cry from sleeping on his back as was his wont. Potter—  _ Harry _ — was there through it all, helping him, supporting him, and taking care of the frankly embarrassing sponge bath situation so Luna wouldn't have to look at Draco's bits, and on the sixth and final day of Draco's stay in the Garrison Infirmary, Harry stood before him shifting his weight from foot to foot in that nervous way that said he had something to tell Draco. 

"Spit it out," Draco demanded, crossing his arms. "I know that look when I see it. You've got something on your mind."

"Er, I may have neglected to tell you some things while you were recovering," Harry replied, looking as sheepish as Longbottom usually was. 

Draco squirmed a brow. "Such as?"

"Dudley  _ may  _ have thrown a temper tantrum and banned you from the palace. I think he might have wanted to have you executed, but he's awfully soft for you."

Harry fixed Draco with an indiscernible look before he continued. 

"If you want, you can stay with me. Actually, I was considering— well, you see, it's kind of difficult to get out now that you're in front of me— only— what I mean to say is—"

"For fuck's sake, spit it out," Draco huffed, and instead of opening his mouth again, Harry just dug around in his pocket, pulled something from it, and thrust it into Draco's hand with a desperate look on his face. 

Understanding dawned on Draco the moment he realized what he was holding. 

The choker in his hand was a gorgeous mahogany color, and it was lovely against the pallor of his skin. It was soft, yielding, and was branded with forget-me-nots just like their wedding rings. Obviously, it was the gift that Harry had mentioned days ago, but now Draco understood that there was so much more attached to that simple gift than he'd first realized. 

"It's brilliant," Draco choked out, running his fingers along the design. "I love it, Harry."

Harry smiled, but the nervousness never left his eyes. "I'm glad. I bought it with the intention of making my feelings clear to you, but as usual, I managed to bollocks that up pretty well. I… Draco, stay with me in The Garrison. I don't know if you have anywhere else to go, but I want you with me. Anything that's mine is yours— my life is a far cry from that of a king, but darling, you will want for nothing. Stay with me, allow me to make amends to you and see if we can start over, the right way this time."

Draco ached with longing. This was so much more than he'd ever hoped for. 

_ I can be with him again,  _ he thought dazedly, staring at Harry with bewilderment.  _ We can live as husbands again, as people who love each other— he wants to share his life with me.  _

The temptation was searing. 

"I'm a coward and a fool," Draco muttered to himself, bringing a hand to his forehead and backing himself against the infirmary bed to sit down. 

Harry, bless him, chuckled. "Darling, you cold-cocked the Dark Lord, I rather think that counts for some measure of bravery."

Slowly, gently, feeling as though he might shatter, Draco caught Harry's hands in both of his own and brought them to his mouth for a soft kiss. 

"I love you," Draco murmured against that rough, calloused skin, "But I can't stay here."

Draco felt Harry tense and heard him inhale sharply. 

"Why not?" 

Harry's voice was small and hurt, but Draco had no choice but to tell him the truth. 

"If you think what happened between myself and Voldemort is finished, you couldn't be more wrong." Draco stood, dropping Harry's hands. "The moment an opportunity presents itself, he'll kill me, and Pansy as well if he recognizes her. He'll kill me for my actions and her for fun—there won't be a body left for you to bury."

Oh, Draco had done it now. Harry's eyes were ablaze, and he placed those big, soldier's hands on either side of Draco's face, trapping him there where he couldn't escape that burning gaze. 

"I will die before you, Draco Malfoy— for none will harm you while I yet draw breath."

There was no question in Harry's words. He was absolutely sure, unshakeably certain of himself and his ability to protect what was his. Draco had seen such an expression a hundred times before in a hundred different faces— faces that later contorted in agony as everything they knew and love was stripped from them, up to and including their very life. No, not even Harry could withstand the wrath of Voldemort, and Draco wouldn't ask him to, wouldn't allow himself to shoulder the burden of responsibility for Harry's downfall. 

"Not in this, Harry. You aren't prepared to defend even yourself against this enemy. He would—" Draco stopped, choking on the words. "He would break you, and he would enjoy it. He would do unspeakable things, things you've never even thought of."

Harry's eyes narrowed. "You really think so little of my skills?"

Draco shook his head. "He lived  _ in my house.  _ I've seen it with my own two eyes, what he can do."

"And because you're afraid, you're going to run away from this— from us?"

"Just because I'd be gone doesn't mean—"

"Doesn't mean what?" Harry snapped, eyes flashing. "Doesn't mean that you don't love me? Doesn't mean that you would go and fuck other people? Please enlighten me Draco, because I'm starting to lose my patience with this conversation."

Draco sighed. "I was going to say that it doesn't mean that I'd stay gone." 

Harry was silent for a moment, but was still visibly upset. Draco's heart ached with the need to take it all back, to say it was all a joke in poor taste and that  _ yes,  _ he would stay and be Harry's husband, boyfriend, lover,  _ whatever,  _ so long as they could be together— but the tight knot of fear in his stomach stopped him, and he lowered his head in shame. 

"What could I do to get you to stay?" Harry asked softly, eyes downcast. "Name it, Draco, and if it is within my power, it's yours."

"Nothing," Draco replied, steeling his resolve. "I won't put myself in that kind of danger, and I certainly won't put  _ you  _ in it just so that we can play house together."

"Is that what you think this is? Playing  _ house _ ? Draco, I want you to live with me because I  _ love  _ you, you idiot!" Harry growled, grabbing Draco's hips and yanking him close. "I want a do-over, a chance to make things right. When I thought you were dead at my own hands, it nearly destroyed me— my ache for you never went away, even as time passed. I missed you and missed you and missed you until it nearly consumed me. Now that I have you again, free from attachment and professing your love, I can't lose you."

Harry pulled in another ragged, tortured breath, and he leaned his forehead against Draco's before speaking once more. 

"I'm afraid if you leave now, just when things were starting to look okay, you'll find you can live without me, and I'll be no more than a distant memory for you."

At that, Draco couldn't help but grin. 

"Harry, never once in the years we've been apart did a day go by where I did not think of you, whether it was to miss you or despise you. Do you think my affections are so fleeting when even attempted execution couldn't stop my love for you?" 

Harry shook his head, but his lips squirmed upwards ever so slightly. "I suppose you might have a point."

A moment of silence passed between them, and Draco pulled Harry flush against him, revelling in the feeling of such a tender embrace. After a few seconds had passed, Harry pulled back, observing Draco's expression. 

"I suppose I can't keep you if you'd like to go," he sighed. "If you leave, where will you stay?"

An excellent question— one to which Draco had given much thought. 

"I plan to go to my ancestral home in Wiltshire," Draco replied. "If my suspicions are correct, I'll find the evidence I require there to stop whatever Voldemort has planned."

Harry frowned. "Have you stopped to consider that he isn't actually plotting anything? People  _ can  _ change, love."

"Not him." Draco looked away, unable to stomach looking at Harry but seeing only the horrors that flashed behind his eyes instead. "You don't know him like I do. He loves power— he's mad for it— and that madness has proven to be awfully contagious. Those of the old blood flock to him like flies to a carcass."

"I believe you."

Those three little words struck a chord in Draco, and he surged forward to capture Harry's lips in a bruising kiss. 

"Come with me," he pleaded against that warm, soft mouth. "Come with me to Wiltshire and help me find out what's really going on, and then we can come back and make things right."

Harry shuddered against him. "Draco, I can't. I have a duty here. I can't abandon everyone and everything on the chance that you'll be successful in finding the evidence you need." 

Draco sighed, pulling back. "That's what I thought you'd say."

A few heartbeats passed, and Draco looked away. 

"Is this it for us?" Harry asked, stroking a thumb along his lover's cheek. Draco looked to him then, taking in the dread and fear behind those beautiful sea-glass eyes, and he shook his head. "The final act?"

_ No,  _ Draco wanted to scream,  _ We aren't finished yet— we've barely begun!  _

"It doesn't have to be, but I understand if that's what you want."

Harry shook his head. "I'll never want that. I can wait as long as it takes before you feel safe to stay here."

Draco's brow creased. "Even if that won't be until Voldemort is dead?"

"Even then. I love you, Draco— no one will ever understand me the way you do, no one could ever hope to share the burden of our pasts but each other. Surely, you can understand that?"

"I can."

At that moment, Longbottom's head popped in the door. "Hey, guys, we're having lunch at the Leaky in a bit if you want to come."

Harry turned back to Draco with a silent plea in his eyes, and Draco nodded, figuring one public outing wouldn't hurt. 

"We'll be there, Nev, just give us a minute," Harry replied, and Longbottom took his leave. 

"How soon do you have to leave London?" Harry asked, placing a hand on Draco's hip. 

"I need to be gone by morning," Draco admitted, feeling the weight of the world settle on his shoulders. "I want to stay a bit longer if only to say proper goodbyes and prepare a bit more, but the longer I risk Voldemort hearing about my recovery… "

"The worse off things will be," Harry finished with a sigh. 

"Indeed."

Draco could practically see the gears turning in Harry's mind, and a moment later, a grin spread across his face. 

"Oh dear," said Draco, and Harry only grinned wider. 

"I have an idea."

Draco rolled his eyes, albeit fondly."Of course you do."

The gleam in Harry's eyes was positively wicked. "I have to make enough memories tonight to sustain me until we see each other again. Forgive me if I'm a little… overzealous." 

"Oh dear," Draco repeated, but he allowed himself a smile as he reached around the back of his neck to fasten his new choker. "I don't suppose I have a choice in any of this?"

"Absolutely not. I'll fill you in over lunch."

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Harry had been to  _ Kneazle Licks  _ from time to time, usually under a glamour when he wanted to pull, or as himself on occasion, when called there on Garrison business. It was a seedy club full of criminals, deviants, and junkies, all of which Harry tended to arrest in the light of day, but didn't mind dancing with at night. Of course, this was not a place where one would go to find a lover— after Draco, Harry had never wanted one, not really— but it  _ was  _ the kind of place where nearly anyone could disappear into the shadows and throngs of faceless people, which was exactly the kind of discretion Harry was aiming for so that Draco could have a pleasant night out stress-free and undisturbed. 

What Harry hadn’t anticipated, however, was how well Draco could blend in. Usually, the way he carried himself alone was eye-catching enough that he could be wearing a potato sack and still noticed above anyone else, and the pretty, expensive clothes he was fond of wearing ensured that no one could look anywhere  _ else _ . Needless to say, after waiting through about two hours of Draco's dressing and undressing and re-dressing, Harry had been expecting… well, not what he saw.

When Draco exited Harry's spare room (where all of Draco's things had been transferred temporarily), Harry had to do a double take. Draco had helped himself to a pair of Harry's joggers, judging by the almost-unnoticable bleach stain on the right knee, and had paired it with a Twisted Sisters t-shirt, a pair of beat-up converses, and a snapback. Harry had never seen Draco in something so casual that wasn't immediately after a shag or sleeping, but after a couple seconds of gawking like a fool, he decided that he  _ very much  _ liked it. 

In fact, when Draco caught him staring and  _ winked,  _ Harry had half a mind not to let him leave the apartment at all. 

"Stop that," Draco huffed as Harry peppered him with kisses, but his smile belied any impatience he might have had. "We need to leave if we're going to have any kind of evening out."

"I don't want to have a night out anymore," Harry said, gripping Draco's hips to pull him close, but Draco only laughed and pushed him away all the more firmly. 

"Well  _ I  _ do. I want to make every last pub-crawler in London six different shades of green with envy of us," Draco said, and Harry shivered, feeling more than seeing the grin that was less than an inch from his ear. "I want to sit in your lap and share my drinks with you, I want to make you so hard that you forget who and where you are and do things you might arrest yourself for."

Harry swallowed thickly. "You always were an exhibitionist."

"Mmm, indeed. Now, let's get going before the rest of your motley crew leave without us."

And so they did. 

It was a gorgeous night, if a bit chilly, but the air inside  _ Kneazle Licks  _ was warm and humid, and Draco's wandering hands made it hard to concentrate on anything except Draco himself. Several times, Hermione tried to strike up conversation over the din of the music, but with Draco half in his lap, nibbling on his ear, Harry found himself making apologies and asking everyone to repeat themselves more than once. 

"I think we should dance," Draco murmured, and Harry was all too glad to escape to the dancefloor where he could melt into the safety of anonymity and allow himself to be consumed by the want that threatened his self control even in front of his best friends. 

"You are incorrigible," Harry chuckled as Draco pulled him to the center of the dancefloor. 

"You're worse," Draco grinned, and turned to face Harry as they moved to the bass of the song, which thumped so loud Harry could feel it through the floor. Without a single moment of hesitation, Draco shoved his hands up Harry's shirt as they danced, leaving goosebumps in the wake of feather-light touches. "And you'll prove it soon, won't you, love?"

Harry's heart fluttered, more of his blood flowed south, and he couldn't help but pull Draco even closer, grinning like a loon all the while. 

"Damn right I will," he said, grabbing Draco's ass and pressing their groins together with delicious friction. 

As they danced, Harry lost all concept of time, space, and self. The music carried him and Draco on a sea of rhythm and undulation, far away from reality and whoever they might have been in it— for as long as they were touching and grinding and  _ feeling,  _ they were miles and miles away from their troubles. 

Somewhere, in the back of Harry's mind, he knew that Draco was leaving come the morning, knew that the driving desperation he felt wasn't only that of one lover for another, but that of one who will be separated from their other half indefinitely— but there on that dancefloor of  _ Kneazle Licks,  _ all that mattered was that their skin was touching. 

"I have a surprise for you," Draco purred into Harry's mouth as they kissed. "But we'll have to say goodbye to your friends first."

"Our friends," Harry corrected, but caught Draco rolling his eyes. "Hermione and Ron have always loved you, even as I have, and Neville is learning to— besides, we've been here for less than an hour. We can hardly leave before the night has really begun."

"We can leave whenever we like, and  _ our  _ friends will understand," Draco insisted. "Let's take our leave, Harry. I have your surprise, then letters to write."

Harry's expression fell. "Letters. Right. Because you're going away tomorrow."

Instantly, Draco's hands flew to either side of Harry's face, pinning him still with those razor-sharp eyes that never failed to pierce his heart. Those pools of mercury were wide and pleading, and Draco spoke with a fervor and lack of nuance that betrayed his desperation. "Don't think of that. Come on, let's go— please, Harry, I need you."

Like a wolfhound turning to the sharp whistle of its handler, Harry at once understood what Draco's words really meant. Many times had they fucked since Draco's first night at the palace, but what Draco wanted— what he needed— was to make love, to truly be filled, to be one soul in two bodies. All at once, Harry knew it all, and he pulled Draco to him, his heart soaring at the opportunity to make anew what had been stained and sullied by the blood of the past. 

"Of course," he murmured, lacing his fingers through Draco's. "Let's be off, then."

Saying goodbye to Ron, Neville, and Hermione seemed to pass in a blur— Harry couldn't remember the words or excuses he'd used or their reactions to it, but he was vaguely aware that he had done his duty in bidding them adieu and had pulled Draco over to the  _ Floo  _ transportation system before shouting out their destination and landing them in Harry's own living room, where Draco clung to him and began to babble almost incoherently. 

"I want you— oh Harry, please, I need— I need— oh  _ fuck. _ "

Harry, overtaken by his own desires, ripped his own joggers from Draco's hips to find that pretty, rosy cock jutting proudly out at him, begging to be touched. With an almost regretful parting look, Harry turned Draco around and dropped to his knees with every intention of thoroughly ravishing Draco's hole with his mouth, but to his surprise, he found a black plug stretching open the place where his tongue would have been. 

From Draco's breathless laugh, Harry knew he'd been staring too long— then all laughter ceased as Harry removed the toy and replaced it with his fingers, eliciting a groan from Draco. 

"You had this in the whole time?"

" _ Yes _ ," hissed Draco, rocking back on Harry's fingers almost involuntarily. 

"So all that time you spent getting ready was actually partially—"

"Yes, yes, yes, you nitwit," Draco groaned as Harry's fingers brushed his prostate. "I just knew I'd be so fucking hard for you all evening, and I wanted things to go rather quickly once we got to this part in the evening— which, might I add, is  _ not  _ happening right now because you're playing with my arse and not fucking me with that fat cock of yours. Oh for fuck's sake, get  _ on  _ with it!"

As Harry withdrew his fingers, Draco popped open the compartment in his arm— Harry was  _ never  _ going to get used to that— and pressed a bottle into Harry's hand. Fighting hard to keep himself steady, Harry uncapped it and slicked himself with the contents.

"Hands and knees, love," Harry instructed, and Draco lowered himself to the floor in front of Harry with his ass in the air.

_ I'm going to have carpet burn on my knees after this,  _ Harry thought, but the idea of the morning's discomfort did nothing to stop him from nipping gentle kisses to Draco's neck as he pressed himself slowly in the furled pink hole that was wet and waiting for him. 

"Oh  _ fuck _ ," Draco gasped, and Harry pulled himself out in a measured movement only to slam back inside with a snap of his hips. 

"I love you," said Harry as he continued thrusting, brutally slow and forceful with his movements. "My sweet, proud dragon."

Draco only whined in response, but Harry knew what he meant anyways. All in one, it was a plea, a promise, and a proclamation, and Harry picked up the pace, but didn't lessen the force behind his thrusts. He wanted to feel it in the morning, wanted Draco to feel it the next morning as he rode away into the dawn, turning his back to Harry once more. More than anything, Harry wished there was a way for them to halt the passing of time, to exist forever in the moment that Draco threw back his head and the scent of citrus shampoo and coffee grounds assaulted Harry's brain nostril-first with nostalgia for a different time and place, but it could never be. No, the moments they were sharing were finite, and their coupling had an expiration date from the very beginning, reaffirming that everything that is truly beautiful must also be truly tragic. 

Harry groaned as Draco's muscles clenched down around him so hard it was painful, and both their orgasms chased them down far too quickly, washing over the both of them simultaneously like the crashing waves of a tsunami. Still unfinished despite it all, Harry turned Draco bodily around and kissed him, wrapping those long legs around his torso before flipping backwards, placing Draco above him where the moonlight streaming in from the window cast a golden halo about Draco's head. In that moment, Draco could have been an angel— the only thing missing was a pair of soft, feathered wings— but then Draco recaptured Harry's lips with his own and broke the spell around himself. 

After all, it was impossible that Draco was an angel, or anything like one— Harry was absolutely certain that no angel in existence would be allowed to be so utterly filthy with tongue and lips and teeth. 

Eventually (though how Harry couldn't have been sure), somewhere between orgasms two and three, they made it to Harry's bedroom. Draco was painfully gorgeous against the deep vermillion of Harry's sheets, and it was only once neither of them could muster up the energy to move a single muscle that they finally gave up their frantic, world-shaking sex. There, tangled in Harry's sheets (and each other) and breathing like they'd taken a lap (or five) around The Garrison, they could no longer run from the heavy burdens they had to bear— they were too close, too connected to one another to pretend that they weren't being crushed under the weight of their past, their present, and their future any longer, and Draco was the first to find his voice on the matter.

"I'm sorry," Draco said quietly, his breath tickling the hair on Harry's chest as he spoke. "I'm sorry for— for everything. Back then, before we were married, I wanted to tell you about the Mark, but I was so afraid. Harry, I loved you more fiercely than I had ever loved anyone in my life, and the thought of losing you because of my past was unbearable. It was selfish of me, but I had to have you— I was determined that I would not be denied happiness by the misery of my former life. 

"But then," he said, and Harry's heart clenched at the brokenness in his voice, "you found out anyway, and my worst nightmare came true. Your coldness hurt me, Harry, more than you could ever imagine."

"I'm sorry," said Harry, fighting off the tears that threatened to form on his lashes. "I would take it back, if I could."

At that, Draco burrowed his head a little closer into Harry's chest, and Harry felt him give a tiny smile. 

"That's the thing… I wouldn't. I don't have a single regret. If I did, it would only be never having lived a full life with you, never having grown old with you and shared all our years together— that is all. I would suffer at your hands a thousand times over just to know your love. I didn't always know it, but every second on that noose was worth the years we had together."

"Hush that." Harry nearly choked on the words, his throat constricting with emotion. "Here you are, talking on the sins of our past as though we'll both die tomorrow when I thought we weren't allowing ourselves to dwell on unpleasant things tonight."

Draco lifted his head, and when his eyes met Harry's own, Harry found them unnaturally bright. "We weren't, but if this is the last time—"

"It won't be."

"But if it  _ is, _ " Draco pressed, "And if in the time that I'm gone, you find someone who can give you that future, I want you to seize the opportunity with both hands. You deserve that, Harry, the family you've always dreamed of and— and if you can find that in someone—"

"No," said Harry firmly, gripping his husband's shoulders. "I don't want  _ someone _ , I want you."

Draco, tragic and beautiful, lowered his head. "In time, you may think differently," he said, "And I— I want you to know that it's okay. I release you from me."

Harry felt sick. 

"How can you say that?" He asked, breathless with incredulity. "Do you think that because I am more technology than man that I am a machine? That because I am a weapon I must also have no heart?"

"Harry, that's the exact opposite of what I'm trying to say, if you would just listen—"

"No, I will  _ not  _ listen to you talk as if you mean nothing to me," Harry replied, his voice raw with emotion. "I won't hear you saying things that rip me from the inside out, as though you believe you mean little more to me than a passing dalliance!"

Draco frowned. "That's not— oh Harry, are you listening to yourself?"

"Know this," said Harry, sitting up from where he lay, "Even in death, there can be no peace for either of us if we are not together. I barely slept even when I thought that you were dead— it was as if a part of me  _ knew  _ you were still out there, still yearning for me as I yearned for you, and I  _ refuse  _ to accept that there can be no future where we find the happiness that is owed to us."

Draco shook his head. "Harry, even you can't change the future, or fate, or whatever you want to call it. Whatever happens is going to happen and there is nothing you can do about it."

"The hell I can't." Harry's hands tightened into fists as he held Draco tighter. "If fate decides to take you from me again, I will  _ destroy  _ that fate. There is no future for me without you in it— I won't allow it."

"You're a fool of a man," said Draco, trailing his fingers lightly over the plane's of Harry's face, "But I love you the more for it. I only want you to be happy, and before I leave here tomorrow, I want you to know that I would do anything, make any sacrifice, if it meant that you could have all the joy you deserve."

"I know," Harry replied, pulling his lover to him, settling Draco's head between his neck and shoulder. "But I won't ask anything of you that you haven't already given me."

"I love you," Draco whispered, and Harry felt the cool slide of a single tear fall from Draco's cheek. 

"I love you too. Rest now, my dragon, if you can. You start a hard journey tomorrow, and you need all the sleep you can get." 

As if on command, Draco's breathing slowly began to even out, and before long, he had fallen asleep tucked into Harry's side, with Harry not far behind him


	6. Storms Brewing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooooo i totally realize that this is a whole lot of filler-esque plot, but it's exactly what it says on the tin. storms are brewing, and the downpour is coming, so stay tuned <3

Leaving London— and thus Harry and Pansy and everyone and everything he had left in this world— after being there so long was one of the hardest things Draco had ever done. The moment Draco faced the real, made-of-flesh horse that Harry had procured for him and prepared to mount it, he found himself unable to muster the strength and instead turned away to sob like a child. Harry, bless him, having recognized all too well the signs of an oncoming emotional breakdown that would likely take the form of a tantrum, turned on his heel and left Draco in his friends' capable hands until he returned with a half-asleep Pansy, who was wrapped in too many blankets for Draco not to assume that at least one of them was for him. 

“Pansy, I want to stay,” he cried when he saw her, rubbing tiredly at his watery eyes. “Tell me I don’t have to go, I can’t bear it.”

"Draco, darling, you mustn't fuss so," said Pansy, removing a familiar tartan blanket from her shoulders to wrap around his. "It's unbecoming of a Malfoy, and it worries your husband so— in fact, he was so worried about you that he was willing to get shot at to fetch me this morning."

"Fuck being a Malfoy," Draco hiccupped, wrapping the blanket around himself, maneuvering it around the bow and arrows strapped to his back. "Fuck my father and his father and his before that. I don't want to be a Malfoy anymore!"

Some distance behind them, Harry cleared his throat. "You're technically a Potter, all things considered."

"Do shut up," Pansy snipped, but didn't so much as turn her head to look Harry's way. "I might still be mad at you if it was your idea not to tell me Draco was leaving."

"It wasn't," Draco confessed with a sniffle, doing his best to look pitiful enough for Pansy to withhold her vengeance. "I wrote you a letter. I knew if you knew, you'd want to come with me, and that would only make The Da— er, Voldemort suspicious. I'm sorry, Pans, I—"

"Don't apologize," Pansy murmured, the scent of Japanese cherry blossom shampoo filling Draco's nostrils as she pulled him close. "You were right, I do want to come with you, but I understand why it can't happen. 

Eyes downcast, she added, "He's being transferred power over the Red Guard anyways— I'd be hunted down and tried as a deserter if I stepped so much as a toe out of London without orders."

Harry swore, but Draco, having expected such a drastic shift, only nodded.

"I don't want to go," he said, burying his face in her hair. 

"I know."

"But I must."

"I know."

"Oh, Pansy, how I wish I could have you with me," Draco said, forcing himself to pull away. "I'll be unbearably lonely."

"You won't have time to worry about being lonely," Pansy muttered, her expression bitter. "You'll be too busy getting yourself into mortal peril."

Well, that was true enough.

"Now," said Pansy, placing her hands on her hips. "You, Draco, are going to do exactly as I tell you. You're going to go kiss Potter goodbye and tell him whatever sappy nonsense that will allow you to sleep at night, and then you're going to say goodbye to all his little cookie-cutter Garrison buddies like a good lad should do. Then, once you've done that, you're going to give your greatest love— that is me— a peck on the cheek, and then you're going to ride off into the sunrise. Yes?"

Draco paused for a moment, taking the time to savor the gorgeous, cold-induced flush on his best friend's cheek, then nodded. 

"Yes." 

As instructed, Draco dried his eyes and walked on unsteady legs to where Harry was standing. Without a word, Harry pulled him into a fierce embrace, and Draco connected their minds with practiced ease. 

Harry's mind was a raging storm of worry, grief, and anguish— his consciousness stood in the eye of the storm, numb to the chaos, but nonetheless aware and weary of it. In comparison, Draco wasn't much better off— if Harry's mind was a storm, Draco's was an earthquake, shaking and shattering and leaving nothing untouched by the force of his regret. They were two halves of a whole horrible, cataclysmic mess, but somehow, they managed to pull comfort from one another, if for no other reason that they were both equally devastated by the sudden change of events that had been made necessary by Voldemort's presence. 

_ 'I love you,'  _ said Harry as they kissed deep and hard.  _ 'I love you, I love you, I love you.' _

_ 'I don't want to go,'  _ Draco replied, resting his forehead against his lover's. ' _ I would do anything for another moment with you.' _

_ 'Then stay. Stay and let me protect you.' _

Draco shook his head, but pressed another hot, wet kiss onto Harry's mouth before pulling away. 

_ 'I love you,'  _ said Draco,  _ 'I always have, and I always will.' _

Next, Draco moved to Hermione, expecting a firm but polite handshake, but instead found himself with an armful of soldier and a face-full of hair

"Be safe," she said, and passed him to Weasley, who clapped him on the back and gave him a look that echoed her sentiment. It was sort of ironic, the fact that he and Weasley could despise each other at times, and yet words between them weren't necessary— but, on some level, Draco might have expected such. After all, Weasley had never been one for words anyways, and Draco found he understood the other man perfectly without them, if for no other reason than that they had been close once, and the familiarity from that bygone time still lingered somewhere in the back of Draco's mind. 

Next was Longbottom, who tried for a firm and polite handshake, but was swept into a hug anyways because Draco felt like being a shit.

(Definitely not because the look on Longbottom's face was just shy of true misery, and Draco wanted to cry just looking at him.)

Last was Pansy— as instructed, Draco kissed her gently on either cheek and bid her farewell. It took all of his remaining strength to pull away and mount his horse, but surprisingly, he managed to do so without falling or bursting into tears, which was a lot more than he had initially given himself credit for. However, before he could dig his heels into his mount and take off, the heavy warmth of a hand on his thigh stopped Draco before he could even begin. When he looked down to see what fool had decided to detain him just as he had gathered his courage, red-rimmed green eyes blinked up at him above a watery smile. 

"I almost forgot," Harry said, handing Draco a disc the size of his palm. "I got you an OWL."

Draco blinked and, completely incapable of filtering himself, said the first thing that came to mind. "I don't mean to ruin what is obviously supposed to be a touching moment, but I was under the impression that an owl has feathers and goes  _ hoot. _ "

That earned Draco a quirked brow almost unnervingly like his own. "It's an Omnidirectional Wavelength Letter transmitter."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that you can send me voice messages from literally any direction at any distance." When Draco's eyes widened in shock and admiration, Harry flushed. "I may have stayed up last night after you fell asleep and rewired it so that it'll only work one way, that way if something happened to me and my OWL fell into the wrong hands—"

"They wouldn't be able to trace it to me," Draco finished, his heart full to bursting. Without a second's hesitation, Draco flung himself from his horse, stumbling and falling in a very un-Malfoy-like fashion, but Harry's reaction time was as fast as ever, catching Draco's full weight in his arms and snogging him breathless before he could hit the ground. 

Behind them, Ron muttered something that sounded like his signature "Bloody hell," but in that moment, Draco couldn't care less what anyone thought. 

"If you still maintain that leaving is the safest option for you right now," breathed Harry, his hands digging painfully into Draco's upper arms, "You had best get up on that horse and ride like the hounds of hell are nipping at your heels— because if you stay even a moment longer, I'm going to change my mind and chain you to my bloody bedpost, even if I have to chase you down on foot to do it."

Draco snorted, but that was mostly to mask the sob that threatened to choke him. "You say that, but could you actually run down a horse even with all that tech?"

Harry's expression was a strange mix of sheepish amusement and reluctant pride, and Draco felt all his blood rush south at the very obvious suggestion that Harry probably  _ could  _ outrun a horse with all that power of his. 

"You've got to be fucking joking me," Draco grumbled, his face heating as he valiantly willed his cock to stop being so excitable, but Harry only laughed and kissed his forehead. 

"Go, Draco, and come back," said Harry, his lips chapped but soft against Draco's skin. "Hurry along, so you can hurry right back."

And so Draco did. With a final wave, he bid his friends, his life, his love, and London farewell, and set off at a canter in the direction of Wiltshire with a heavy heart, but renewed determination. 

That, however, was a week ago — now, hungry, with saddle sores and a bad attitude, Draco was much less convinced that returning to his childhood home was a a good idea. In fact, he'd had just long enough of a journey to be miserable with travelling, and just enough tasteless, chewy game to long for the choice of becoming a vegetarian. To make matters even worse, Draco was every bit as lonely as he'd told Pansy he would be the day he left London, and he felt like an utter fool when he tried muttering into the OWL transmitter Harry had given him only to realize that there would be no response and that there was literally  _ nothing  _ to talk about except how bland unflavored rabbit meat tasted or how bad his saddle sores ached. 

Indeed, the only thing that seemed worthy of discussion was that there was a truly impressive amount of things that Draco could find to bitch about… 

But that was before he actually arrived at the outskirts of Malfoy land. Once he actually arrived, things started to get interesting right from the get-go. 

From the start, Draco had mapped out his journey to take him directly to his mother's gardens on the furthest edge of the Malfoy property. The Malfoys, of course, had many gardens closer to the manor itself, and could boast of a veritable maze of gorgeous hedges, but Narcissa's chosen patch of earth was always Draco's favorite, and was often visited by the wildlife from the nearby woods that fancied a bite of her tomato plants. Those very woods would be an excellent place for Draco to make camp— it was close enough for Draco to slip back and forth from the Manor to plant and receive the signal from his  _ Extendable Ears _ , but far enough away for Draco to hunt and move freely without being seen. 

On the bright, sunny afternoon of the seventh day of his travel, Draco reached the spot that should have marked that beautiful garden and found it razed to the ground, nothing left of it but ash and dust. 

"No," he heard himself whisper, and his heart clenched inside his chest. 

With slow, methodical movements, he dismounted and fell to his knees, raking his fingers through the ashes of what was once what he'd once imagined to be Eden. As he touched the ground, felt the deadness in it, Draco was sickened to his core— Narcissa Malfoy would never willingly allow years of love and the labor of her hands to be so thoroughly destroyed, and it twisted inside him like a knife in his gut to think of what had come to pass at Malfoy Manor in recent days that would call for such drastic action. There were only two things in Draco's mind that could result in something like this, and neither of them were pleasant to consider. 

Either agents of the crown had discovered Lady Malfoy's rather extensive garden of illegally grown and distributed poison ingredients and had thus razed the garden to the ground and fined the Malfoy family heavily, or Voldemort's people were back at the Manor, destroying every beautiful thing that had survived their last stay. 

So engrossed in his own thoughts was Draco that he failed to hear the sound of oncoming hoofbeats before it was too late to try to escape or pretend to be a lost passerby. 

"Draco, my son— is that really you, or has this old woman finally gone mad with her grief?"

Narcissa Malfoy stood among the ashes of her garden with still, serene grace, but the waver in her voice belied her composure. She was as beautiful as Draco remembered her, and he found himself speaking without thinking the first word of it through. 

"I have had many names," he said, locking gazes with a set of gray eyes nearly identical to his own. "But that is the one you gave me at my birth."

Hearing those words, Narcissa's face crumpled, and she began to rush forward in a thoughtless, stumbling manner that was reminiscent of a drunk. "Oh, my son, my only child—"

And then she stopped and turned deadly still when Draco raised his hand to her, his activated tech humming ominously in the air between them. 

_ I should  _ Obliviate  _ her,  _ Draco thought, aggressively trying to convince himself that it was true despite the fear, the love, the  _ desperation  _ in his mother's eyes.  _ I should wipe her mind of my presence and plant an  _ Extendable Ear _ on her to hear what's going on inside the Manor.  _

"Do as you must, my son," she said, clasping her hands in front of her, "I'll not begrudge you your duty." 

Draco flinched, but quickly realized that he was foolish not to have expected as much. Even though Draco was a skilled  _ Occlumens _ with a genetic predisposition for mental tech talent, the Black sisters— Narcissa, Andromeda, and Bellatrix— were the country's most accomplished  _ Legilimins _ , and had updated the tech to the highest level available, giving them the ability to pick up on any thought that was the barest bit too loud. Compared to his usual flow of consciousness, Draco had probably been screaming his thoughts like his lungs were on fire with them— it wasn't a wonder Narcissa had picked up on his inner strife without so much as batting an eye. 

"What would you know of my duty?" he asked, wary and unsure of his footing. "What do you know of  _ me?" _

"Nothing, and nothing," she replied, "But you  _ are  _ my only child. I would like to keep this memory of you, grown and handsome as you are, if you could find it within yourself to show me mercy."

_ Mercy,  _ Draco thought quietly to himself behind the strong walls of his  _ Occlumency. I've yet to see such a thing in my lifetime. _

Whether or not Narcissa heard that thought, Draco wasn't sure, but her reaction was unsurprising either way. 

"A trade," she suggested, stepping forward. "A mutually beneficial arrangement. This memory for my aid, a fair exchange. You have no doubt come all this way for something important, something difficult— allow me to assist you."

"I can't do that," Draco replied, sweating as he felt her mind brush along his own. "You weren't supposed to be here. I can't risk anyone finding out that I've returned, especially if Father is as involved in the conspiracy against the throne this time as he was last time, and I don't trust you not to sell me out."

Narcissa's mind made an uncomfortable shift against Draco's, and he scowled at her with as much heat as he could muster as she began to speak.

"I was never for the Dark Lord," she sniffed. "He's hardly nobility himself."

"But you were never against him," said Draco, "And you would do anything to protect Father."

At that, Narcissa nodded, conceding. "Indeed. But, as it happens, I have come to the realization that Lucius may not always know what is best for him." 

Draco gave her a startled look, which must have encouraged her to continue. 

"Your father… he's mad with fear these days— fear of the Dark Lord, yes, but also of your Aunt Bella and of Lord Fenrir Greyback, and many others. The Manor is being used as a safehouse, and they run roughshod over us, break things for the sake of breaking them, ruin all the beautiful furniture with their wiles— and that's just the house. You must understand how awful it's been."

And wasn't that just it? While the rest of the world was facing subjugation, enslavement, and persecution, the Malfoys were concerned with the state of their  _ furniture.  _ Cold anger washed over Draco, and he couldn't keep the contempt for his family and himself out of his voice.

"If you expect my pity, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed," he said, his face contorted with disdain. "I have none left to give you."

"Not your pity," replied Narcissa, "but your understanding. Darkness blankets this place; my garden is in ashes. Surely you must realize there is no love lost between the cause and I, should you accept my help."

Draco scowled. "The only thing that I understand here is that I was banished from my own home, left to wander the streets like a stray dog— and make no mistake, that's exactly what I did, for a time— and now that I've returned, one complicit in my banishment craves a boon of me, insists she will keep my little secret and help me plot against those she is allied with just so that she can keep a memory of a man she knew when he was a child. Forgive me if I find that difficult to believe."

"Draco—" Narcissa began, but Draco cut her off. 

"Mother, you complain of broken furniture and a life of fear, but you have no idea what I've gone through to stand before you now."

"But I want to," Narcissa said, taking a few steps closer to her son so that they were standing face to face. "Show me, Draco, I want to know."

Draco knew better than to show her. It was knowledge too easily exploitable, too likely to become a vulnerability that Draco couldn't afford to have. No matter that she was his mother— she had abandoned him in his most desperate hour of need, had cast him out when he was at his most raw and defenseless. No, she couldn't be trusted with such a thing… 

And yet, when he looked into her eyes, he knew he couldn't refuse her. 

Resigned to his choice, Draco extended his hands— an unnecessary gesture, but one that was symbolic of permission and respect for privacy. Narcissa took his hands in her own, and Draco opened a connection between them, picking and choosing which memories to push forward and which to leave concealed. 

_ Draco and Pansy starving, running from policemen as they carried stolen food.  _

_ Draco trying his best to work a street corner, but pride getting the best of him as he returned home to their lean-to in the woods colder and hungrier than before.  _

_ Pansy crying, calling out for her mother, and Draco comforting her as best he could.  _

_ Their first heist, their health returning with the food in their bellies and warm showers. Their last heist, Draco's marriage— so full of love, light, and laughter, and Harry's kindness— then Draco's heartbreak, his brush with death, and fleeing to London.  _

_ Deep, intrinsic sadness, bouts of gloom and melancholy, and so many murders and betrayals. The kindness of Severus Snape becoming a two-edged sword, cutting Draco as deep as it cut the enemies of the Cardinal. Snape's death, Harry's return into Draco's life, and Tom Riddle arriving at court.  _

The connection closed, and Narcissa clutched at her chest as though in pain. 

"I'm sorry," she whispered, closing her eyes. "I'm so, so sorry."

Draco shook his head. It was a decade too late for talk like that. 

"I don't need an apology. I need a spy, or I need to  _ Obliviate  _ you. You and I both know the latter would be more intelligent of me."

Narcissa recoiled, then paused. "What about a partial  _ Obliviation _ ?"

"Those are difficult."

By difficult, Draco meant nearly impossible. The amount of control and precision in normal  _ Obliviation  _ was astounding, but a partial… it was almost unthinkable for someone who had no training in it.

"Yes," Narcissa agreed, "but it's exactly what we need."

Draco shook his head. "Too risky. I could wipe your mind entirely and leave you drooling in this field irreversibly."

"A risk I am willing to take, Draco," Narcissa pressed, her eyes shining with emotion. "You're an accomplished young man, far more talented than even I could have predicted— I trust you with my memory and my life, because I know what sort of child I raised. Wipe your identity from me, where I found you, and anything else that might connect us, but leave the task you wish me to accomplish in my mind. Use your own conviction, your own determination to fill the gaps, and I'll have no choice but to follow my new instincts in the absence of memory."

It was beyond risky. It was foolhardy. Draco wasn't desperate, he could sneak  _ Extendable Ears  _ into the Manor on his own— there was no justifiable reason why he shouldn't just completely  _ Obliviate  _ his mother and be on his way. He had done much more heartless things in his life for much worse reasons, but for some reason, when he looked at Narcissa, he knew he'd never be able to do what he knew he needed to. Perhaps it was the fact that she was now someone who carried the weight of Draco's secrets and past, making the weight easier for him to bear, or perhaps it was just the fact that she was the woman who raised him, who taught him to love and be loved… either way, he knew he'd fail at the task as surely as he'd failed to kill The Dark Lord at his return. 

"Be very still," he told her, putting an  _ Extendable Ear  _ in her in the pocket of her skirt. "And know that it's on your head if this goes awry."

Narcissa nodded. "I'm prepared to take the risk, whether or not you're confident in your own abilities."

Truth be told, Draco was scared shitless. Manipulating memories wasn't exactly his forte— he had never attempted anything more than a clean wipe of the last few moments of a person's memory, and even then, he had never substituted any memories of his own creation, opting instead to push a few stray emotions and suggestions into it before withdrawing entirely. A first-time partial  _ Obliviation  _ would have been difficult enough in a lab under controlled conditions, but to try it out in the field without so much as cracking a book on the subject was tempting fate in the worst way. 

Nevertheless, Draco grabbed every last squirming, wriggling inch of his courage and pinned it down, willing it to stay as he plunged into his mother's mind once more. 

_ 'If we suppose that _ Legilimency _ is simply peering into the guts of a specimen and understanding their function,'  _ Severus used to say when Draco expressed his frustrations with the art of tampering with memory,  _ 'then  _ Obliviation _ is taking a scalpel to the specimen and rearranging it, hoping that everything still functions correctly. Line everything up correctly— that is to say, ensure that the plumbing works— and you'll have performed a successful  _ Obliviation _.' _

As he mentally prepared his scalpel, Draco really hoped he knew what he was doing. 

_ 'It's not so difficult as all that,'  _ Narcissa assured him, as calm and collected as ever.  _ 'Submerge yourself into my stream of consciousness, and I'll meet you there.' _

Draco did as he was bid, and found himself standing in a room of filing cabinets that he could only assume belonged to his mother's innermost being. As expected, she was there also, and she held out a file for Draco to examine. 

_ 'This is our encounter,'  _ she said, and Draco saw that it was true.  _ 'Simply take this and remove any part you deem necessary." _

So saying, she handed Draco what looked like a jar of white-out and turned away. 

From there, it was a simple matter. Draco sifted through the pages— which displayed not words, but the hazy visions of memories— and applied the white-out where he would. With only a little reluctance, he obscured his identity, his location, and anything else he might have revealed, leaving only the task that Narcissa was to accomplish and the warm affection she felt upon recognizing her son after so many years apart. When he was done, the room around him faded, and he withdrew from Narcissa's mind, saddened and yet relieved. 

Coming back to himself, Draco blinked his eyes open to find his mother's firmly shut. With gentle hands, he turned Narcissa around and gave her a gentle shove in the opposite direction, hoping the path he left in her mind would have her feet carry her safely back to the Manor. 

"Go now, and make haste," he whispered in her ear. "Don't turn around, no matter what you think you see or hear."

Obediently, Narcissa did as she was told. Though she took off at a brisk pace, her shoulders remained square and her back remained straight, giving the appearance of a spirit gliding across the clearing. As she disappeared through the treeline, Draco's shoulders sagged in relief, and his horse let out a little whinny as he leaned against the animal's strong torso. 

"Talk to me when you've had to wipe  _ your  _ mum's memory," Draco grumbled into the stallion's dapple gray hair. "Do you even know your mum, old boy?"

The stallion snorted, and Draco sighed. 

"Quite right. I really should stop jabbering on and find a decent place to pitch my tent, and then we can go wandering in search of that little creek to get you some water. How does that sound?"

A single hoof beat the earth.

"Well, then, it's settled. Come along— I think I'll make more use of this OWL. transmitter and send a few words to Harry as we go."

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


"Is that Harry James Potter I spy? It cannot be! Surely he must be dead, considering the fact that he hasn't returned any of my OWLs."

Harry turned to find Ginny Weasley grinning ear to ear as she approached him, one arm looped through her brother's and the other through Hermione's.

"Hi, Gin," he grinned, opening his arms for a hug that she all but knocked Ron over to sprint into. "It's been ages. What brings you here?"

Ginny, Ron, and Hermione all exchanged looks, and finally, Ginny laughed. 

"The wedding? Remember? You know, the one you're to be the best man in and all. You are aware it's only about a month and a half away, aren't you?"

Harry had not, in fact, remembered that Ron and Hermione's wedding day was coming so soon. To be fair, he'd had a bit of a rough patch lately, what with discovering that Draco was alive, the return of a Dark Lord, and the ache of losing Draco again so soon after having found him again, but that didn't stop him from immediately feeling like utter shit for not realizing that something so important was coming up. 

"Harry has been a bit busy with his OWL transmitter lately," Ron teased, elbowing his sister. "You won't  _ believe  _ how long he spends just staring at it and listening to the same three messages over and over."

Ginny quirked a brow as Harry flushed. "Oh? And why is that?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Harry replied sincerely. 

"Try me," Ginny insisted, and Hermione cleared her throat. 

"Perhaps we should have this discussion somewhere less… in the middle of the marketplace?"

Harry scratched the back of his head sheepishly, and Ginny blinked, processing. 

"Oh shit. I'm really not gonna believe this, am I?"

Harry shook his head, but offered her his arm as Hermione directed them towards Ron's flat chattering all the way. Ginny's arm was warm against him, even amidst the chill of winter, and Harry found himself relaxing against her as though he'd released a breath he'd been holding for a while. 

"I've missed you, Gin," he murmured as they crossed the threshold, and the smile she gave him was dazzling. 

"I've missed you too," she replied. She looked like she might've said more, but Hermione pulled at her elbow to guide her to a seat at the dining table, and she went willingly as Ron did much the same to Harry. 

"So," said Ron, scrubbing at the stubble on his chin. "Who wants to drop the bomb?"

"Nose goes!" proclaimed Hermione, and because she had Ron bloody well-trained, their fingers were less than a second apart in tapping their nose. 

Unfortunately for Harry, that also meant that he was several seconds too slow.

"Bugger," he grumbled, but one look at the concern on Ginny's face killed any further complaints he might have voiced— this was going to be difficult enough to talk about  _ without  _ winding her up with the suspense his bitching would build. "Well, alright then. Might as well start from the top, shall we?"

Ginny nodded, and Harry tried to look less like he wanted the earth to swallow him than he felt. 

"You remember my, er, late husband?"

This, Harry knew, was a sensitive topic. Once, Harry and Ginny had been… Harry  _ and  _ Ginny _.  _ Their relationship had been an unstable one, paper thin and doomed to fail from the very start, but there had been such an intense mutual feeling between them that their inevitable breakup had been earth-shattering. Losing her had felt like losing a limb, and for a long time, Harry had felt off-balance— in fact, he'd only found his footing again once he'd met Draco, who had come along with his charming smile and his devil-may-care attitude and turned Harry's life inside out. 

"How could I forget?" she muttered, and Harry sighed. 

Needless to say, Draco and Ginny had not gotten on at all when Harry had first tried to introduce them. Ginny was still emotionally raw from their violent split (and hadn't yet figured out that her preference was not, in fact, cock) at the time they met, and that, combined with Draco's need to lash out when he felt insecure, created the biggest shitstorm Harry had ever seen at that point in his life. She hadn't come to the wedding, and she was only there for his execution to support Harry. 

"Well, he isn't exactly  _ late  _ anymore," Harry winced, but figured that if he was in for a knut… "He's, er, rather punctual, if you catch my meaning."

At that, Ginny blinked, stunned. "Are you telling me that Draco is alive?"

"For now," Ron interjected with a teasing grin, earning himself a smack from Hermione. 

Ginny sat back in her seat, and Harry could practically see the gears turning in her head as she stared vacantly at the table in front of her. 

"I was there the day he hanged," she said, her eyes rising to meet Harry's. "How can this be?"

"He was cut down by one of the villagers," Harry replied, shuddering at the thought of that day. "He picked up and moved on, eventually settling here in London to become a massive pain in my arse under a different name."

"De Winter, they called him," Hermione supplied. "He can be a bit…"

"Unstable," Ron finished, and Harry couldn't find a single reason to argue with that description. 

"In any case, we have a- a thing. Er, that is to say, he isn't quite what I thought he was— what  _ we  _ thought he was— and now he's out in Wiltshire gathering intel on the current issues we have here in London."

Harry proceeded to explain everything about Tom Riddle's arrival and ambition as well as he could, and by the time he was finished, Ginny was three shades paler and looked as though she might sick up. 

"And your Draco is really alive?"

The words  _ your Draco  _ echoed inside Harry's head as though he were a bell that Ginny had struck with a mallet, but he was able to manage a nod nonetheless. 

"This is… I think I'm going to need time to process this," she said. "It's a lot for me, and I frankly can't imagine what it was like for you."

"Take your time, Gin," Harry replied, parting her arm. "You have plenty of it, since there's nothing we can do now but wait for information to flow in."

As if on cue, the OWL in Harry's pocket chimed with a new message, and all eyes at the table were on him as he pulled it out to see. 

"Well," said Ron, donning a smirk that would've put his older twin brothers' to shame as he folded his arms. "News from the field, is it?"

"Er, yes," replied Harry, feeling the tips of his ears pinken. "It's from Draco."

Ron's smirk grew deeper, if that were possible. "You gonna let us hear it or what?"

"Well, I wasn't going to, but I guess I could," Harry shrugged, but the air of nonchalance he was aiming for was ruined by his own nervous fidgeting. 

"Are you scared it'll be something dirty?" 

"Ron!" Hermione chastised, but that only seemed to encourage him.

"You can't tell me he hasn't before," Ron goaded, laughing even as his fiancee dug her pointy elbow into his side. "The look on your face says it all."

Harry couldn't deny it. 

"Shut up, Ron."

"If it  _ is  _ something dirty, can I listen to the whole thing for blackmail purposes?"

_ "Shut up, Ron."  _

"Or will listening to it in front of people just add spice on it for you?"

"Ron, leave him alone," Ginny huffed, snatching the OWL out of Harry's hands. " _ This  _ is staying in my bra until all of you can learn to behave."

So saying, she promptly shoved the OWL into her shirt and folded her arms over it. 

"Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but I need a bit of booze to properly deal with everything that was just said. Do any of you have anything decent, or are we going out?"

Ron snorted. "Ginny, it's eleven in the afternoon."

"I said what I said, you rodeo clown."

"Oi!" Ron yelped in protest, but Ginny barreled on.

"Seriously guys, this is London, practically the capital of drunken debauchery— there's at  _ least  _ one place in this city we can get trashed in midday."

Ginny looked pointedly at Hermione, and her sister-in-law to-be sighed.

"Well… we do know of  _ one  _ place."

Ginny raised a brow. "But?"

"But it's in Red Guard territory," Hermione replied with a grimace.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning if we don't start a fight with the other patrons first, they'll start one with us just for the hell of it,"said Ron. "The Garrison and the Red Guard aren't exactly chummy."

At that, Ginny's grin broadened, and Harry bit back a laugh, knowing what her response would be. 

"So more the better. What are we waiting for? I haven't been in a good pub brawl in  _ ages. _ "

Naturally, Hermione wasn't as convinced that it was a good idea to provoke the Red Guard when tensions were already high as it was, but after much debate and a bit of blackmail on Ginny's part, they were all finally in agreement to head back to the last place Harry had been shot by one of the Guard. 

"Say," Harry heard Ron say to Hermione as they walked out of the apartment. "Has anybody seen Neville today? We should invite him if he isn't busy."

"I'm sure he has better things to do than get trashed midday like the rest of us," Hermione grumbled. "It wouldn't be appropriate to drag him into something so uncouth when his reputation is so nice."

The "unlike ours" was unspoken, but Harry heard it nonetheless.

"If you say," said Ron, and that was the end of that. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Neville was  _ not  _ having a good day. 

It was one of those rare days where he woke up angry— woke up with Frank and Alice Longbottom on his mind and a need to make someone else feel the hurt he felt inside. On such days, Neville became someone different, someone worse, and he would either take the day off and wallow in his misery, or he would find someone to beat the piss out of, without fail. Fortunately, the fury pumping through his veins always told him what sort of release he needed to find in order to cope that specific day, and today, his fury had been explicitly clear in its desires. 

It was high time he crossed over into Red Guard territory and got plastered enough to start a row unlike anything the city had ever seen. 

It didn't take long to find a pub that would work— the one Harry had been brawling in the day before they'd met would serve Neville's purpose just fine. It took considerably more time to imbibe enough alcohol to make a public brawl seem like a grand idea, but with enough Galleons and perseverance, he was eventually able to reach a state of drunken rage that was fitting for his purposes. He was just allowing his eyes to wander— and linger— on potential opponents when none other than Pansy  _ bloody  _ Parkinson took a seat in front of him, folding her arms and crossing her legs with a guarded look in her eyes that Neville disliked from the moment she sat down.

"The fuck do you want, Parkinson?" Neville growled, but Pansy only shrugged.

"Nothing in particular," she replied, her tone as airy as her expression was blank. "Just wondering why you're looking to start a fight in  _ my  _ pub."

"Who says I'm looking for a fight?"

If it was possible for Pansy's look to become more dry, it did. 

"No one of your ilk comes here unless they're looking for a fight."

Neville bristled at that. "My  _ ilk?" _

"Yes," she said, waving her hand to gesture at him. "The do-gooders, the morally upstanding— in case you hadn't noticed, this is a pub of rather ill repute according to you and yours."

Rage, sharp and poignant, surged in Neville's chest, and he fought the urge to throw his drink in her face. 

"And you belittle me for it?" Neville spat, his voice raising as the liquor found his vocal cords. "You think because I am loyal and brave and true that I am  _ less?  _ That I'm no danger to someone bad like you?"

"On the contrary," Pansy replied softly, her eyes suddenly bigger, sadder than they were, and full of something akin to pain. "I believe it makes you more."

Neville shook his head with a wry laugh, but Pansy's hand shot forward and gripped his wrist painfully tight. 

"Leave this place," she said. "Go home, eat something, drink a glass of water. Call up your friends, have them sit with you and talk through whatever this is. You're above this, above  _ us _ . Go  _ home _ ."

For a moment, just a tiny blink of time's eye, Neville felt ashamed— ashamed of the dark, ugly thoughts that had polluted his mind, ashamed that Pansy of all people had seen him in such a moment of weakness— then, like a wave crashing down over his head, the rage and heartache was back, and he snatched his hand away from her with a viciousness that would have curdled milk. 

"I don't need a _lecture,_ " he hissed, "and if I did, it sure as hell wouldn't be from someone of _your_ ilk."

Pansy raised a perfectly-shaped brow. "Oh? And what is my ilk, exactly?"

"The depraved," he snarled, "the sick, the demented, the  _ damned. Your ilk _ , Parkinson, is what tortured my parents to the point of insanity.  _ Your ilk  _ is the reason I've grown up being a guardian to my own parents instead of a child. Your ilk  _ disgusts me!" _

That instant, Neville felt a heavy hand land on his shoulder. 

"Is there a problem here?" 

Neville turned to see a man of equal height to him, but nearly double his breadth. The stranger was huge and hulking beneath crimson armor identical to Pansy's and Neville couldn't hold back the fierce excitement strumming in his veins at the prospect of a nasty brawl. 

"Leave it, Carver," said Pansy, her glare as sharp as needles. "This is my fish to fry."

Carver, as the stranger was apparently named, sneered. "You might have caught him, but I'm going to eat him."

Neville might have been drunk as a lord, but by his own estimation, he was still in damn good fighting shape— unfortunately, however, he didn't get a chance to test it out, as Pansy had slipped gracefully out of the booth and extended her compacted crowd-control spear, which crackled with electricity at the end. 

"I  _ said,"  _ she repeated, her black eyes gleaming with a challenge, "Leave it."

Carver snorted. His finger twitched, and Pansy sprung into action, as lithe and fierce as a panther. She tossed her spear into the air, clapped her hands over the larger man's ears, grabbed his head and brought it down one, two, three times on her knee, then shoved him backwards so hard he fell, catching her spear neatly before it hit the ground. He landed hard on his back, and her foot slammed into his throat as she shoved the chirping, crackling end of her spear in his face. 

"Do  _ anything  _ like that again, and I will not hesitate to see how far this spear will go up your arse before you die."

Neville shivered, and a new presence at the entrance of the pub made itself known by a well-made exclamation that echoed Neville's sentiments exactly. 

_ "Holy shit." _

Pansy glanced over at the same time Neville did to find what must have been a rather shell-shocked Ginny Weasley battling an ill-timed nosebleed. 

Ron, who stood just behind her, coughed something that sounded like "Subtle," but Hermione elbowed him so hard he bent double. With that, the whole lot of them— Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Ginny— approached Neville's booth with wide eyes and hesitant smiles. As they came forward, Pansy lifted her foot and moved her spear enough so that Carver could get up, and he scampered away just as Harry stepped forward to clap a hand on Neville's shoulder. 

"Well, well," said Harry with a laugh, "it must  _ really _ be a day for drinking and brawling if you're already here before us, Nev."

And just like that, the tension bled out of Neville as though a dam inside him had broken at Harry's very touch. 

"You have no idea," he replied, and Harry laughed once more. 

"Let's introduce you and Pansy to Ginny and the next round's on me."

Ginny and Neville shook hands as Harry introduced them, but her eyes never left Pansy, who stared curiously back at her, spear still out and posture a bit stiff. Neville tried not to feel offended that Ginny wasn't as anxious to meet him as he had been to meet her— after all, Ron had gone on and on for ages about how much fun his sister was, and said he'd OWL-ed home about Neville and the rest of them with great frequency— but he supposed it wasn't her fault that he wasn't nearly as interesting or attractive as  _ Pansy bloody Parkinson.  _

Fuck. His day just kept getting better and better. 

After Pansy and Ginny had exchanged an awkward handshake and continued their strange deer-in-headlights staring, Harry suggested that they all move to a booth large enough to accommodate them all. Then, after having chosen a horseshoe-shaped one that was to his liking, Harry promptly shoved Neville into the middle, sandwiching him between Harry and Hermione, with Ron on the other side of Harry and Ginny and Pansy facing one another. From there, the drink and conversation flowed freely and easily, and Neville's mood had significantly improved by the time he got settled down enough to eat a plate of fish and chips. 

After a while, Neville started to notice Pansy getting restless— it wasn't obvious, but since she had begun acting as something of a liaison for Harry with the Red Guard, Neville had enough opportunities to observe her mannerisms to notice that something was off. She was quiet where she would normally snark, fidgety when she would normally be still, and it came as no surprise to Neville when she announced that she was headed to the loo. 

And, for much the same reasons, though he had only known Ginny a short while, Neville was equally unsurprised when Ginny offered to accompany her, saying something about dangerous bathroom visits involving a troll or something under her breath. 

"Oh dear," said Harry from his seat beside Neville with a sort of curious tone to his voice. 

"What?" Neville asked, following Harry's gaze to the retreating backs of Ginny and Pansy. 

"I know Ginevra Weasley like the back of my hand," he replied, grinning into his drink, "and she is going to pull Pansy  _ bloody  _ Parkinson or die trying."

At that, Ron spluttered and choked on his pint, and Neville found himself laughing,  _ truly _ laughing, as Ron whined about never being able to wallow in his own blissful ignorance without Harry ruining everything with his intimate knowledge of and experience with Ginny-wrangling. It felt good, such laughter— Neville laughed so hard he wheezed, then laughed some more until he thought he might piss himself, and then he was so tired from laughing and so drunk off of cheap spirits that he nearly didn't make it to the loo before he was laughing again. 

_ This is what my parents would have wanted,  _ he told himself as he settled back in beside Harry once his bladder was empty.  _ They would have wanted me to be happy, and here I am— disgustingly, defiantly happy.  _

"To bad days and worse booze," Neville proposed, raising his newest pint for everyone to toast. "May we all be sick enough later that we refuse to do this ever again."

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Despite looking very much like the supernaturally fair and handsome wood-elves of legend, Malfoys, generally, were quite ill-suited to the outdoors. 

Or, at least that's what Draco like to blame his misery on instead of admitting that he was just sunburnt, bug-bitten, and sick and fucking tired of having to trap, kill, and skin his own food. 

It seemed that time passed in a blur— nothing separated one day from the next, except perhaps the quality and quantity of the conversations Draco overheard. He eavesdropped on a plot for murder here, a screaming match there (all of which was to be expected under the roof of the Manor), but for weeks on end there seemed to be nothing substantial for Draco to base any claims off of. Such banal, ordinary crimes, the nobility could get away with, could justify with half-truths and escape unscathed— Draco needed proof of treason, and he needed it sooner rather than later. 

_ I wonder what Harry's doing,  _ he wondered, listening to the sound of footsteps echoing through the Manor's halls as he relaxed against a tree.  _ Whatever it is, it's got to be better than this.  _

Granted, not many things could be worse than listening to silence and picking ticks off of oneself, but given the Dark Lord's presence in London, anything was possible.

Before Draco got a chance to think too hard about it all, the rustle of grass and bushes reached his ears. Silent as a shadow, he rolled onto his feet and armed himself with his bow and some arrows he'd made with the extra broadheads he'd brought for when his old arrows had all been used. Crouching behind some bushes, he hid himself well and waited for whoever or whatever was moving to approach. 

_ Finally,  _ Draco thought to himself with the barest hint of a smile,  _ looks like things might get interesting after all.  _

Soon, however, that smile was gone— a stranger, a passerby, or a friend of his father's might have been greeted with silence or an arrow respectively, but Draco soon recognized those footfalls. To another, it might not have been so obvious who was traipsing so far into the woods, but Draco had spent years of his life playing hide-and-seek listening for those very steps.

Narcissa Malfoy was drawing ever nigh to Draco's hiding spot, and he was quickly running out of ideas for how to deal with the nasty situation her presence created. 

_ Has she sensed my presence?  _ he wondered, checking his  _ Occlumency  _ walls.  _ It could be that she's stumbled this way by accident, but—  _

Then, all at once, her  _ Legilimency _ tech came into his range, and it became glaringly obvious that her path was intentional as she broadcasted. 

_ 'Draco,'  _ she called, flinging her mental presence about as though shouting through the woods in search of him.  _ 'Draco, darling, where are you?' _

White-hot rage simmered in his veins. He'd been tricked.  _ Tricked!  _ And by his own mother, no less! His mother, who he'd treated with mercy and kindness when she had deserved none. Years and years he had spent at the Manor, years learning the art of spotting a plot a mile away, and yet when it mattered the most, Draco had failed once more. What a fool he was! 

Her footsteps drew close to his camp, close enough to be within bowshot, and Draco emerged from the bushes, an arrow notched, drawn and aimed straight at the delicate figure of his mother.

Politely—  _ intelligently _ — she froze in her tracks. 

"Why have you come?" he asked, his eyes searching for the slightest hint of movement. "Better yet, _how_ have you come? I seem to remember completing a successful _Obliviation_ on you, mother, and yet you walk the woods near my camp, calling my name. You knew I was here."

Narcissa took a step forward, and Draco let an arrow fly. It whizzed just past her head and  _ thunked _ into a tree behind her. 

"Move an inch closer and the next one will be between your eyes."

Narcissa stilled once more, and sighed. 

"Oh darling, you always were so  _ dramatic _ . I come to you to help you, not to hinder."

Draco's eyes narrowed. "You tricked me. I don't know how, I don't know why, but you did, and that doesn't bode well for your continued health and safety."

Narcissa frowned, and Draco was made all too aware of what it felt like to be on the receiving end of his own wiles; his mother was every bit a master of the art of manipulation as he was. As she stood before him, dressed in rich colors of silk and tulle, her body language radiated meekness and submission which, when coupled with her beauty, gave her the appearance of being quite fragile. Her eyes were wide, her shoulders were drawn into her body, and her head was bowed sweetly and serenely— it was a classic manipulation, one that Draco had learned directly from her. 

Really, Draco mused, nocking another arrow, it was no wonder that he had grown up to be a spy, a saboteur, and an assassin— treachery and backstabbing were apparently quite genetic. 

"Draco, my child, you wouldn't shoot your mother, would you?" she asked, pulsing calmness at him through her  _ Legilimency _ — another trick of the trade— but Draco grit his teeth against his impulses and pushed back with darkness and anger and snarling certainty. 

"You don't know  _ what  _ I would or wouldn't do," he replied, his hands and his heart as cold as ice. "I am many things, but sentimental is not one of them once my ire has been provoked."

"I'm not afraid of you," Narcissa said softly, and Draco chuckled. 

"You should be. Why have you come? And at least try to make it convincing if you can't make it true— I won't enjoy killing you, but I'll do it if I sense so much as the tiniest of deceptions."

Narcissa shook her head, and Draco's heart clenched as she opened her palms to show empty hands and her face to show real, visceral pain. 

"I told you the truth— I came to help. Please, Draco, lower the bow, let me say my piece."

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid!  _ screamed Draco's common sense, and yet he faltered, letting his arm relax the draw of the bow, then lowered it entirely. Truly, if his mother had turned on him, it didn't matter whether he was a fool or not— the men she would've brought with her would riddle him with arrows of their own before he even let his fly to begin with— and on the off-chance that she had not betrayed him, it couldn't hurt for Draco to show a modicum of trust. It was probably healthy, even, that he could still manage it after all he'd been through. 

"Very well," he sighed. "What is it?"

Narcissa's smile was muted, but still radiant. "Let us sit, my son. We have much to discuss."

Draco did as he was told, and Narcissa reached into a pouch tied at her waist to draw out what appeared to be two metal bugs. 

"Do you know what these are?" she asked, rolling them around on her palm.

"I've no idea."

Her grin was positively feral.

"I should hope not. I invented them myself only recently. It's a bit of an upgrade, if you will, on the current  _ Legilimins  _ tech. I even thought of a way to circumvent the surgery needed to install such a thing."

Draco's jaw dropped to the forest floor. 

"You're  _ shitting  _ me."

Narcissa raised a brow. "Language, Draco."

"No, really, pull the other one."

"I assure you, it is no joke," she replied, closing her hand around the tech, "but there is… something of a catch."

That, at least, was to be expected. Newer, better, or faster seldom meant easier in Draco's experience.

"Which is?"

"... Excruciating pain upon entry and installation."

Draco's brow furrowed. Whatever it was couldn't be  _ that  _ bad— clearly it was usable if Narcissa was presenting it to him as such, but there was something about her expression that bothered Draco.

"How does it work?"

Narcissa reopened her palm, holding it out for Draco to see. "Take note of the size and shape of the implants. What do they look like to you?"

Draco thought back to the ticks he'd pulled off earlier, and his answer was immediate.

"Bugs."

"Precisely. These little bugs, as you put it, are designed to be placed at the base of the skull so that they might burrow through skin, muscle, and bone until they reach the desired tissue and situate themselves there," Narcissa explained. "Once placed, they increase your sensitivity to thoughts and emotion as well as your range, and it also increases efficiency so as to limit fatigue from extended use. The pain is mostly from the burrowing, and then the mechanism that the technology uses to repair the tissue it burrows past, but the results are absolutely exemplary."

"Fascinating," breathed Draco, and he almost reached out to touch one before remembering who it was he was talking to. Narcissa had an angle— a Malfoy, even one that married into the family, always had an angle— and he needed to know what it was. "But why come all the way out here and risk your life just to show this to me?"

"A raiding party led by Greyback is to leave here in a week's time. They are to deliver a series of letters to a safehouse that I'm not privy to the location of," said Narcissa, averting her eyes. "They speak of it always in a room with Silencing tech lining every wall, but with my level of  _ Legilimency,  _ it's no problem for me to pick up bits and pieces— enough, at least, to determine their plans for myself. If you're looking for hard evidence of the resurgence of the rebellion, this is the best opportunity you will get, and if you want half a chance at obtaining those letters, you will need this upgrade."

Draco's head felt like it was trapped inside a ringing bell. 

"Why?" he asked, breathless with shock. "Why help me?"

Narcissa's face hardened, and the same gray eyes she'd passed to her son cut to him sharply. 

"Because I am tired of living at your father's whim," she replied stonily. "Because I am tired of my sister and her cronies, and of living a life of scheming and treachery… but mostly because the day you were banished marked the beginning of the loneliest years of my life, and now that you're here, I want to make sure I never feel so unbearably alone ever again, even if that means betraying Lucius."

Draco shook his head in disbelief. "I must be dreaming."

At that, Narcissa smiled wryly. "You won't think so once the installation process begins. Nothing but reality could produce such agony."

"I haven't agreed to anything yet," Draco replied, but the rebuttal sounded weak even to his own ears. Sensing that weakness, Narcissa pressed on. 

"But you must," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "And you must do it today. It is absolutely necessary that I be present to oversee the installation, and I doubt I'll be able to escape for long enough to aid you again without raising suspicion."

Draco started, his mind reeling. "Today? As in now? You must be mad!"

"Not mad. Practical." Narcissa removed her hand, and her expression morphed into something bittersweet. "It's your decision, of course, but you must make it quickly. The procedure will take several hours, and time is running out. You are playing a dangerous game, my son— you play it well, but now is the time to learn when to accept help when you need it."

"I need a moment to think," said Draco, and his mother nodded, smiling softly. 

"I'll give you a moment. Call for me when you've made your decision— I'll be just behind those trees to the left."

When Narcissa was gone, Draco groaned and buried his face in his hands. 

_ Letters,  _ he thought, wishing he could trust the information he'd been given.  _ Hard proof of Tom Riddle's treachery. Something that could save thousands of lives if delivered to the king or destroy that same thousand if not. It's almost too perfect. There must be some catch… _

But the more Draco thought, the more tangled his thoughts became. The only thing that remained clear was that  _ nothing  _ was clear, and it became evident that Draco must make his choice blindly and pray to any God that existed that he made the right one. Absentmindedly, he fingered his wedding ring— he never could bear to part with it, and wore it on a chain around his neck to guard it against damage— and wondered what Harry would do in his shoes. 

_ Bloody fool probably wouldn't have thought twice about it. He'd just take the upgrade implants right off the bat as though he were invincible,  _ Draco thought wryly.  _ He's always been insufferably brave that way.  _

"What the hell," he sighed to himself. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained."

Draco almost called out to Narcissa to let her know that he'd made his decision, but he paused for a moment, considering, before removing his OWL transmitter from his pocket and flipping the switch to activate a transmission. 

"Er, hello, Harry," he began, feeling as foolish as ever when speaking to nothing but open air. "I don't have a lot of time, but I wanted to let you know that I'm about to do something very fucking stupid. If I survive, you can be supremely pissed at me if you'd like, but if the surviving thing works out well for me, then I'll ply you with the intel I lived long enough to gather. If not, then I'm sure you'll find a way to forgive me. I love you, and if I'm able, I'll contact you again to let you know I'm alright."

Draco thought a minute, then added, "I might not have a chance, depending on how well installation goes and how fast my marks are moving, but I'll do the best I can. Send Pansy my love."

All ends now tied, Draco called out to his mother, and Narcissa appeared once more in his little camp. 

"So, what will it be?" she asked, folding her legs delicately beneath herself as Draco took a seat on a log. 

"Let's begin," he replied, and Narcissa smiled. 

"Thank you, Draco, for trusting me," she said, beckoning him closer. "I know you have little reason to, but you won't be disappointed."

Draco really, really hoped that was true. 

"Turn around," said Narcissa, pulling one of the upgrades out of the pocket of her dress. "And do feel free to scream— while you were thinking, I took the opportunity to set up silencing technology around the perimeter of the camp."

Draco opened his mouth to inform his mother that such a precaution was entirely unnecessary, but before he could speak, the implant began to burrow, and all he knew was pain. 

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  


"Harry, you've been moping all day, will you  _ please  _ tell me what's wrong?"

Harry's expression went all pinched and miserable, and Ginny was briefly reminded of their previous relationship. He had often made that face when she would press him about why their relationship wasn't moving forward, or why he was being so distant— it was his "you're not going to like my answer" face, and she was so sick of seeing it that, even after all the time that had passed, she still felt like punching it off his stupid face. 

"It's about Draco," he said, scrubbing at the scruffy mess of a beard that was beginning to grow around his chin and cheeks. "He sent an OWL earlier and I— well, I'm worried."

Ginny felt oddly okay with that. 

"Well, you should be worried. If things are like you said, then he's risking a lot, and it's okay to be concerned," she replied, her voice kinder than she thought it would be. "Although, it is kind of silly to be worried about someone who cold-cocked a member of the royal family right in front of God, the king, and everyone else."

At that, Harry chuckled a bit, but the worry never left his eyes. "He can take care of himself, that's for sure."

Ginny studied him for a moment, then understanding dawned. "But this is somehow different, isn't it?"

Harry looked away. "Yeah."

Sitting there on Harry's couch, alone with him save for the Spanish drama on the telly, Ginny knew she could pry the answers she wanted out of him, could crack that foolish Garrison boy like a clam shell, but something stopped her. This was one of his rare days off— he probably didn't want to talk to his ex-girlfriend about his sort-of husband's apparent mortal peril. Harry deserved the privacy that no one else seemed to want to give him, and Ginny respected that now more than she did when they were together.

"If you want to talk, I'm here," she said, and Harry nodded. 

"Thank you, Gin. It's just— he's not saying what's happening, but his message feels very much like a goodbye, and I don't—"

Harry's jaw tightened, and he didn't have to say another word for Ginny to understand what he meant. 

_ I don't want to lose him when I've only just got him back.  _

"I see," she said, reaching out to touch his hand. "I'm sorry."

Harry nodded and they were silent for a moment, contemplative. 

"I love him, Ginny," he said quietly as the Spanish lady on the telly began wailing because her daughter found out that they were sleeping with the same man. "I thought maybe I could ignore it, repress it when he— when everything happened, but I've never been able to stop, and if I lose him again, I don't know what I'll do."

Ginny smiled, a melancholy fondness rising in her chest. "I do."

Harry blinked. "What?"

"I know exactly what you'll do," Ginny replied, absolute in her certainty. 

"And what's that?"

"You'll finish the job. Harry, I know you— you won't let his death be in vain. And once it is finished, once you've completed the task set before you, you will mourn, and you will weep, and you will rage. Then, when you've been as aggrieved and angry as you will, you'll begin to heal, and life will do what it does best. It will go on."

Harry looked at her then as though he were seeing her for the first time, and his eyes began to glisten. 

"I know there's no love lost between you and Draco," he said with a watery smile, "but I believe if you had gotten to know each other, you would have been as thick as thieves."

Ginny clutched at her chest in mock horror. "Lies and slander!"

He shoved her then, and she shoved him back, and somehow they ended up wrestling on the floor until she kicked Harry into the coffee table and nearly set his flat ablaze with the candle they'd knocked off. 

"Look what you've done!" Harry wheezed through his laughter. "You've ruined my carpet, you bint!"

"You were the one who crashed into it, you tosser!"

Their conversation dissolved into laughter, and Harry was smiling like he was alive again. 

"Thank you, Ginny," he told her sincerely once their laughter had died down. "I needed that."

"Any time," she replied, and she meant it. "Now, since I've brought you out of your slump for the time being, you have to repay me by telling me everything there is to know about our Miss Parkinson."

"That's Officer Parkinson to you," Harry grinned and Ginny smacked him again. 

"I'm serious!"

"Fine, fine," he laughed, rubbing his shoulder. "The first thing you need to know is that Pansy is a  _ total _ pillow princess— and I only know  _ that  _ because this one time Draco and I were snogging in a broom closet and…"

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


When Draco woke, he was three days older, and the world had grown sharper, louder, and more terrifying than it had ever been before. Narcissa knew this because his distress flooded the campsite and likely several miles past it the moment he woke, and she was by his side in an instant.

"Breathe deeply, darling," she told him, speaking gently and softly, as she had been raised to speak. "Put the mask on, just like I taught you when you were little."

The mask, the mask— Draco was scrambling for it, for anything to block out the wild scramble of new thoughts and sensations, and he eventually found it and wrenched it into place. As he shaped his face into a picture of perfect indifference, Narcissa could feel the cacophony in his head begin to lessen and the emotions draining away— soon enough, his emotional presence was all but diminished, and his muscles sagged in relief as he gained temporary peace. 

"That's it," Narcissa encouraged, helping him to sit up. "Block it out completely for now so that I can talk to you."

Once Draco was able to open his eyes without searing pain— oh, how Narcissa had hated that part of her own upgrade— he looked to her and nodded, and she handed him a canteen full of water as she spoke. 

"What you felt, my son, is your new normal," she said, and Draco shuddered. "The thoughts and feelings of every sentient thing that is too weak to block your new senses are now yours whether you want them or not. In time, you will learn to control it, but until then, we will use your mask when things become overwhelming."

Across the way, a rabbit was frightened by a passing shadow— somewhere above, a hawk was hungry and searching for food. Draco was beside them and one with them and beneath them all at once, and his breath was suddenly harsh and fleeting. Narcissa could feel it, sense it even as it was happening, and she reached out to grab his shoulder in a grip tight enough to ground him, to provide something for him to focus on in the midst of overwhelming sensation. 

"Block it out, Draco," she demanded, shaking him lightly. "Listen to my voice. Feel what I feel."

Narcissa summoned her inner calm, imagined deep pools of water— still, dark, subversive pools that radiated peace. Draco's mind, scrambled with confusion by his new world of too-bright chaos, reached out frantically and dived in, hiding himself away from the noise. 

"That's it," she soothed as her son melted against her. "You're going to be okay."

"What the hell did this thing do to me?" he asked, his voice scratchy and deep and so very different than the voice she remembered from his childhood. Her little boy had grown up to be a strong, handsome man— and so much like his father that she wondered whether it was a good thing or not.

"Really, Draco you are _ so _ dramatic, just like Lucius," she teased, brushing the signature Malfoy white-blond hair out of his eyes. "It was endearing when you were young, but now it's just tiresome."

Draco grimaced. "Mother, honestly."

Narcissa allowed herself a smile at that, but proceeded to explain the necessary details. 

"What you're experiencing is sensory overload from so much new power flooding in," she told him, patting the shoulder she had squeezed before. "With training and guidance, you'll learn to move that power in and out of focus sort of like a camera lens so that you aren't constantly aware of  _ everything _ that is thought or felt in your presence, but it will take a while if this is your initial reaction."

Draco groaned, and Narcissa couldn't help but laugh.

"Oh, don't fret, my dear," she chuckled, even as he sighed. "You are strong and talented. It might have taken a less-suited person several more days to come 'round after such a procedure— done without the usual anaesthesia, might I add— and your physical being is hearty and hale even if your mental being is undergoing some adjustment. You'll be fully trained and ready before you leave in three days."

At that, Draco swallowed thickly. "Three days?" 

"Yes. Your training starts as soon as you can stand."

Draco let out a brief whine, and Narcissa laughed once more. 

"Your father thinks all your cunning came from the Malfoy side of the family," she grinned. "I let him think so because it gives me more sway with him in the end, and you grew up to have pride in your surname, which suited my purposes beautifully. But make no mistake, Draco, dear— I am a Black through and through, and so, it seems, are you. It's time I taught you what it means to be of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black."

Draco's eyes went wide, then he smiled for the first time since they had reunited. 

"Very well. I'm ready when you are."

Oh, the poor boy. He was never going to be ready. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


It was a very odd thing, to be inside the mind of a field mouse. 

Draco felt… hungry. He was on guard to the point of paranoia, and perhaps a bit frightened. Or, rather, the mouse was feeling these things, and Draco could sense them so strongly that it was as though the sensations were his own. 

Two days and six hours ago, he wouldn't have been able to distinguish which feelings were the mouse's and which were his, but somehow, lying flat on his back in the dirt, eyes closed and shirt off, everything seemed clearer than it had back then. There was the mouse, there was Draco, and there was Draco-and-mouse, somehow all coexisting simultaneously. It was odd, to feel something so intensely from so far away— Draco and the mouse were about two miles apart, which was the full extent of Draco's range— but he was slowly becoming used to his new hypersensitivity. 

"Excellent," said Narcissa from above him, exuding pride that he could sense much like a soft breeze across his face. "You're far from ready, my son, but this is as ready as you'll be before you must leave."

In order to reply, Draco slowly receded from his connection with the environment, which he had learned was important. Early on, he'd tried to rush back to his body, back to the feeling of cover and safety, but after he threw up the second time, his mother had insisted that he try it over and over until he was able to reel himself back to his body in a more collected manner.

Absolutely hellish, that Narcissa Malfoy— dreadfully insistent and infuriatingly polite. 

"Did you get the supplies I asked for?" Draco asked as his eyes readjusted to being back in his head. "I know you didn't have a lot of time to gather them, but—"

"Of course I got them," she sniffed, motioning towards the saddlebags Draco hadn't noticed sitting by his campfire. "I've not seen you for the better part of your adult years, the least I can do is manage that much."

Draco nodded, grateful. He'd not asked for much— just some jerky for the trail so he didn't have to have squirrel or rabbit for  _ every  _ meal, a handgun, ammunition, and a skin of wine— but he would have given half his bank account to have even one of the things on his list. Having all of them (for free!) seemed too good to be true, but it was when Draco checked the very back of the saddlebag that he pinched himself to make sure he wasn't dreaming. 

There, nestled behind jerky and a box of bullets, was a copy of an Old World poetry collection from the time Before— Draco's favorite compilation of poems by his favorite poet, Lord Byron. 

"Mother, you shouldn't have," Draco choked out, oddly moved. "This beauty belongs in a library, not with me. Besides, I'll not have time to read it."

_ I'll likely not even survive long enough to read it,  _ he thought to himself, but managed to refrain from voicing it as Narcissa tutted. 

"It was collecting dust in the Manor. You would get far more enjoyment out of it than our houseguests, I assure you."

Resigned, Draco bowed his head. 

"Thank you," he said, and he meant it. 

"Say nothing of it." Narcissa turned her eyes to the overcast sky, watching the blackened clouds to the east roll ominously towards them. "The task set before you is a great burden, and one that you should not have to bear— if I can but make it a little easier, then I shall be a happy woman at last."

Draco's heart cracked. 

"Mother, I—"

"No."

Narcissa turned her back to him, and despite the solidity of her metal defenses, Draco could feel her despair and knew that she was beginning to cry. 

"You needn't worry," said Draco half-heartedly, but he knew that she could  _ feel  _ the lie even before it left his mouth. 

"I am afraid for you," she told him, still facing away, "As I very well should be. I have faith in you, of course, but the odds are not in your favor— surely, you must remember Fenrir well enough to know why."

Draco winced. Indeed, he did remember. He doubted he'd ever forget. 

"Even so," said Draco with a conviction that he did not feel, "I have no fear of him. I've been within death's grasp before, and I have had training to resist the sort of interrogation Greyback is so fond of."

Narcissa lowered her head. "With luck, it will never come to that."

A beat of silence passed between them, and Draco dared to crack a smile as a raindrop hit his nose. 

"Lady Luck is a traitorous hussy, mother— you know that as well as I do. I won't count on divine intervention because I don't need it. You've given me the skills to survive in this world— anything else is superfluous.”

Finally, Narcissa turned, and Draco found her smiling bittersweetly through her tears. 

"My brave son," she sniffed, her love evident in the shine of her eyes, "You are what your father might once have been, if only he'd learned to be kind."

Draco couldn't think of a response, and his consternation must have been broadcasting through his new tech quite loudly, because Narcisaa laughed aloud despite his outward stoicism. 

"You need to get some rest," she told him, patting his cheek. "They'll leave tonight at dusk, and you'll want to catch their trail while it's still fresh."

"I will," he said, and Narcissa opened her arms to him with tears in her eyes once more. 

"Be safe, Draco, and be smart," she said to him as she squeezed him tight. "Know when to pull back— don't make rushed decisions, and most certainly  _ do not  _ get caught."

Draco nodded. "I'll do my best, mum."

They pulled away, and Narcissa wiped her eyes. 

"I love you, Draco."

"I love you too."

With that, she turned and was gone before Draco quite knew what to do with himself. 

"Well, I suppose there's nothing for it," he sighed to himself, glancing despairingly at his sleeping bag. "I might as well try to sleep."

And try he did—he tossed and turned and covered himself in Pansy's blanket to remind him of home— but he never succeeded. No, Draco couldn't sleep, not when there was such a heavy weight upon his shoulders and the clamoring thoughts of a hundred chirping birds in his ears— not even the exhaustion of nearly sixty hours without sleep could pull him under the surface of sleep's dark pool. No position was comfortable, and his stomach roiled with anticipation of the hunt that would begin that night— after about half an hour, he gave up trying to sleep entirely and began to pace, and once  _ that  _ began to drive him spare, Draco flung himself down by a tree and yanked his OWL from his bag, pressing the button to begin transmitting. 

"Hi, Harry. I know I haven't sent anything for a few days, but you wouldn't believe how things have changed."

Draco paused, considering mentioning what it felt like to be a field mouse, but, ultimately, he decided against it— it would take too long to explain anyways. 

"At dusk, I set out to track a band of marauders who are carrying pertinent information. I need sleep pretty badly, but I can't manage it." Draco chuckled briefly, remembering what it was like to lay awake next to Harry, conflicted over whether or not he should tell his husband the truth about the past before everything went so spectacularly pear-shaped. "You used to sing me to sleep when I had trouble, do you remember? What's that song you used to sing to me? I can't quite remember all the words— I don’t think you could either— but I loved it. I still do. Would you sing it for me, if you were here? Let's see, I think I can remember how it goes…"

Draco cleared his throat and began to sing. 

_ "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make me happy, when skies are gray…" _

As Draco sang, it began to rain, but he kept on singing anyways— his heart felt so full of love that every living thing within range of his tech could probably feel it, and in that moment, nothing else mattered. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


_ "... You'll never know, dear, how much I love you. Please don't take my sunshine away." _

Ron, with his head poked unceremoniously through the door of Harry's flat, recognized Draco's voice singing, and it was too late that he realized he was intruding on what was probably a very deep, emotional moment for Harry. 

"Oh God," said Harry, his head hung low as he half-laughed, half-cried. "You sappy bastard. Go to fucking sleep."

Ron cleared his throat, announcing his presence, and Harry's head jerked up.

"Hi, Harry," Ron greeted him sheepishly, glancing around. "This a bad time?"

"No, no, not at all," said Harry, tossing his OWL onto the end table next to his couch. "Come in, I was just— well, I mean, Draco sent a transmission and I—"

Ron held up his hands. "Say no more. I wanted to drop by 'cause 'Mione and I were cleaning up and we found some really old polaroids while we were cleaning everything out of our storage closet— which is somehow important to do before the wedding, you know how she gets— anyways, we figured you might want them. They're mostly of Draco."

At that, Harry beamed. "Are they from when you bought him that ancient bloody Polaroid camera for his birthday and he spent the entire month taking the most embarrassing pictures of everyone that he could?"

"The very ones," Ron grimaced. "You wanna go through them together so I can give you permission to use some of them in your obligatory embarrassing best man speech?"

Harry grinned wickedly, and Ron regretted his actions almost immediately. "Are you  _ trying _ to make it more difficult on yourself?"

_ Oh, what the hell,  _ he thought, remembering the pile of junk Hermione was having him sort through.  _ A little embarrassment is a small price to pay for skiving off chores. _

"I've always been a glutton for punishment," grinned Ron, and they situated themselves on the couch together, the grocery sack full of photos Ron brought sitting neatly between them. 

The first picture Harry fished out was one Draco took of himself planting a wet, sloppy kiss on Ron's cheek, and Ron winced at the horrified expression he wore as well as the fire-engine red his whole face had turned at Draco's kiss. 

"Aw, I forgot he made us all wear party hats like kids that year," Harry laughed, and Ron buried his head in his hands. "This is hilarious, I'm going to frame it."

"The bloody hell you will!" said Ron, looking up from his hands, "That's mortifying!"

"Ooh, it'll go right next to this one," Harry said, pulling out another picture. He handed it over, and Ron's eyebrows shot up into his hairline at the sight of Pansy screaming bloody murder as Hermione sicked up in her vintage Louis Vuitton handbag.

"We were so drunk that night," Ron chuckled, feeling almost outside of his own body with nostalgia. "I hardly remember any of this."

"I'd forgotten it completely," Harry admitted, sifting through the photos. "I think after—  _ after _ , I just tried not to think about anything, even the good times, and now it's like…"

Harry trailed off, and looked away. 

_ It's like the good times never even happened,  _ Ron thought, but kept it to himself as he reached into the bag to pull out another picture, this time from the bottom of the stack. 

"Oh man," he laughed, taking in the sight of Draco mid-fall off the dock at the pond Harry had dug back in Surrey for fishing. "Isn't this the time you snatched his camera because he was going to take a picture of the embarrassingly tiny fish you caught and fell in because he lost his balance in the struggle?"

"Oh my God, that's going up too," Harry giggled even as he fished out another one from the same day, taken immediately after Draco pulled himself out of the pond to wrestle Harry until they  _ both  _ fell in. "Look at all the algae in his hair!"

Ron chortled. "He was so angry. I don't think I've ever laughed harder at anything than I did watching you two fall off the dock and try to drown each other."

Harry looked mildly affronted through his haze of amusement. "Hey, we weren't trying to  _ drown  _ each other, it was just a bit of rough play."

"Which involved him shoving your head under and yelling at you to see how  _ you  _ like water in your lungs?"

Harry cracked a grin at Ron's raised brow. "Yeah, but I also spat pond water back at him and rubbed his face in the dirt shortly after, so…"

Ron shook his head. "Bloody children, the two of you."

Harry's smile faltered, and Ron's chest clenched as he remembered that they  _ had  _ been little more than children back then. 

"We were so young," said Harry. "Young and foolish and so in love."

Ron pulled out a picture of Hermione yanking him by the tie mid-lecture, and he couldn't help but agree. 

"Everything has changed," said Ron, slipping a picture (one of Pansy shirtless in the background of Harry screaming wildly and pulling his face down with a hand on either cheek) into the 'hang it up' pile, "And yet nothing has."

"It's certainly strange," said Harry, pensive. "Say, do you ever wonder what would have become of us if I had never discovered Draco's secret?"

Ron grimaced. He hated thinking about Draco— there were too many facets of the man, too many masks, too many lies and half-truths, and trying to reconcile Draco-Before and Draco-After brought up feelings that were too complex to process. 

"You were bound to find out at some point, mate," said Ron, and Harry shrugged. 

"Maybe, maybe not. Who can know?" Harry paused for a moment, thinking, then spoke again. "Whatever the case, without him as a catalyst, I'm certain you, Hermione, and I would all still be living in Surrey, comfortable and at peace. Those were the darkest years of my life, those directly following his death— and yet, he said he didn't regret them, and that I shouldn't either. How am I supposed to deal with that?"

Ron allowed himself a small grin. "You just do. Can't change the past now, and I kinda like where we are right now. Don't you?"

Harry sighed, but mirrored Ron's grin. "I guess so. I still miss him, though, and I worry."

"So Ginny said, after she explained to me in great detail how much you know about Parkinson's vagina," Ron shuddered, recalling the horror he'd felt as his little sister had ranted about the evidently perfect description Harry had provided. "How  _ do  _ you know all that anyways?"

Harry grinned. "Apparently, Draco learned more about vaginas in general than he ever wanted to know while they were on the road in their youth. He won't tell me exactly what the circumstances were, but it must have been pretty bad."

Just then, a fist slamming loudly into Harry's door startled both of them, and Ron paled as he recognized his fiancee's voice on the other side of the door. 

"Ronald Weasley!" she shouted, banging ever harder, "I'll flay you alive if you don't get back to our flat  _ this instant  _ and help me clean! I know you're in there too, Harry, don't you lie for him!"

Ron whimpered involuntarily, and Harry, the callous bastard, laughed at him. 

"Better go," he teased, "Your honey is calling."

"Don't look so bloody smug," Ron groused, raising himself from where he'd all but melted into Harry's couch. "I remember the days before  _ you  _ were married. Draco was ten times the nightmare Hermione is." 

Behind the door, Hermione made a noise of annoyance. "I am  _ not _ a nightmare, you're just a slob!"

Harry laughed again, and stood to hug Ron before he left. 

"I'll throw you a nice funeral," he said, and Ron managed a laugh of his own. 

"You had better, or I'll bloody well haunt you."

"Ron! Get out here now!"

With a sigh and a longing backwards glance at Harry's couch, Ron unlocked and opened Harry's door, stepping out into the storm that was his fiancee's wrath. 

  
_ It's a good thing that I'm arse-over-tit for her,  _ he thought as Hermione yanked him forward by his hand,  _ Or else I would mind being called a useless layabout a whole lot more.  _


	7. Unexpected Meetings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, posting is probably going to remain slow like this until the end of the fic, since my life is chaotic. I predict only about 2-4 chapters are left to go, depending on how I decide to break things up. Thank you guys so much for remaining patient and wonderful and kind and beautiful <3 I'm only sorry that I can't churn these chapters out any faster for yall.
> 
> Also tw for extremely mild torture, most of which takes place off screen. If it bothers you, skip to the first set of ***

Draco tracked Greyback's Hounds of Hell (which, he'd found, was the unnecessarily dramatic name they'd chosen for their band of brigands) for weeks, biding his time and gleaning what information he could from their obnoxiously loud (and frankly disturbing) thoughts. Things had quickly settled into a routine— the band would raze a town to the ground, loot it until there was nothing left, celebrate for a few days, then leave, kicking up dust in their wake. Draco felt angered, impotent in the face of their destruction, but there was nothing he could do. The best he could manage was to focus on his mission so that Greyback and everyone like him wouldn't be allowed to take over England entirely. 

Still, hearing the screams of townspeople and watching the smoke from their homes rise high in the sky did nothing to quell the rage inside him, which grew exponentially by the day. 

Worryingly, the path Greyback's band was taking moved steadily in the direction of London, and Draco was starting to be concerned about being able to find an opportunity to sneak into their camp undetected before those letters reached their intended recipient. Greyback kept them closely guarded either in his saddlebags, his tent, or his own pockets, and almost always let the others rape and pillage to their hearts' delight as he kept watch over the letters. Having thus observed, Draco astutely ascertained that, more than likely, he couldn't get within ten feet of the damn things without being caught within minutes. At times, it seemed almost impossible to think of anything resembling a plan to infiltrate, and it took long enough that the Hounds of Hell had almost reached Surrey before Draco finally caught the barest hint of a lead. 

As they say, good things come to those who wait— and Draco had been waiting a long time for that bloody lead. It came to him in the form of a stray thought that might as well have been screamed clear across the wilderness:

_ 'The Lord of Surrey has been absent from his home  _ _ for quite a long time, running about playing soldier instead of ruling his lands,' _ Greyback mused, and Draco somehow knew that he was also sharpening one of his knives at the time,  _ 'Perhaps I shall pay special,  _ personal  _ attention to these people.' _

Greyback made up his mind at the same time Draco solidified his plan. Greyback would leave on foot with his men, leaving behind his steed and his tent virtually unguarded as far as Draco was concerned, and the moment he was out of sight, Draco would slip in, unnoticed and unhindered.

_ I’ll slip in, get the letters, slip out,  _ thought Draco with glee as the day grew ever nigh,  _ It’ll go off without a hitch and I’ll be back by Harry’s side before I know it. _

However, even as Draco was thrilled at the chance to search Greyback's tent, his heart sank at the idea of Harry's people—  _ his  _ people, his friends, his acquaintances— being subjected to Greyback's wrath. It was sickening to think of what might happen. Even those on the very outskirts of the land had loved Harry and therefore Draco by proxy, and they each and every one were good, honest folk. To think of their homes burned, their valuables stolen, their hearts crushed… it made Draco sick. 

_ Whatever the cost, I must succeed,  _ he told himself, willing away the image of Laura, the butcher's daughter, the girl whose soft heart saved his life, caught in Greyback's grasp.  _ Better a few hundred lives than all of England. This is the lesser evil.  _

Lesser evil or not, it was still an evil, and Draco tallied it beside the rest of his sins even as he planned his entry and exit points into and out of the camp.

When Draco's chance finally came to him, the full moon was high in the sky, and the air was so cold that it burned his lungs with every inhale. The night was bright and beautiful, and reminded Draco painfully of the home he and Harry had made. It was the sort of night that should be enjoyed by lovers with tangled limbs and breathy sighs… instead, there were screams in the distance, and Draco’s heartbeat quickened as he slipped through the now-empty camp, which had been completely abandoned in favor of destroying the homes and lives of the people of Surrey. 

_ Come on, come on,  _ he thought to himself as he tossed around in Greyback’s sleeping bag.  _ It’s got to be here somewhere _ .

The search of Greyback’s tent yielded nothing. It was impossible that he had entrusted it to one of his cronies— the intel was too important to risk it being found by those captured or dead. No, it would either be on Greyback’s person, or it would be with his horse. Since Greyback was out raiding, Draco seriously doubted that the letters would be with him, so that left only one option. 

Careful not to disturb the sleeping mechanical hounds that had been left to guard the camp, Draco slipped back to where Greyback’s steel horse was tethered. As Draco approached, it began to kick and snort, but he paused all motion until it settled, then moved forward once more. 

“Easy, easy,” he told it, searching its saddlebags. “Nice metal boy, that’s a dear.”

The saddlebags contained no letters either. Frustration gnawed at Draco beneath the fear-panic that filled him as he checked his timepiece. He was running out of time. For now, he should probably retreat and regroup, but something within him rankled at returning to his cold, wet patch of ground empty-handed. God, he was such a failure, how had he ever thought that he could accomplish anything, especially something that mattered this much? The mark on his arm alone should have been reminder enough of— 

The answer smacked Draco across the face. 

_ A compartment!  _ he thought, frantically feeling the steel horse’s underbelly. After a moment, his hand found a latch, which, when pulled, revealed a cylindrical compartment. Thrilled by his findings, Draco pulled the letter from its hiding place, and stuffed it in the inner pocket of his coat. Just as he began to rise up from where he had bent low to retrieve the letter, a heavy hand settled on his shoulder, and Draco startled so hard he bumped his head on the way up. 

“Well, would you look at that,” said Lord Fenrir Greyback with a smile like a knife, “The little Malfoy sprog, all grown up.”

Draco didn’t waste time— he ran. 

How had he missed such an imposing presence, especially with his new-and-improved tech? It was almost impossible, unless Greyback had some cloaking device… but why use it now and not before? Unless… unless he had known Draco was coming.

_ Fuck _ , he thought, panicked, tearing through the mass of tents that blocked his path.  _ This couldn’t  _ possibly _ get any worse.  _

Then, as was the wont of the universe where Draco was concerned, things went even more pear-shaped than he had ever thought possible.

He tripped.

The split second he was on the ground was enough for Greyback to pounce on him, pinning him down with brute strength. 

“You’re fast, pretty boy, I’ll give you that,” laughed Greyback as he shoved Draco’s face into the dirt. “But you never would have made it past the perimeter of the camp. My hounds would have chased you down like the wily little fox you are.”

Draco didn’t dignify that with a response— instead, he turned around and sank his teeth into the meaty flesh of Greyback’s forearm and  _ yanked _ .

Grayback howled and struck him hard on his left eye before wrestling the purloined letters from Draco’s hand and stuffing them in his own trousers. 

“Just for that, you and I are going to have some fun,” growled the lord, and he yanked Draco upwards by his hair, placing a knife under his chin. “One wrong move and I give you a new hole to fuck, you understand?”

Draco spat, and Greyback huffed a laugh once more as he walked him towards what Draco recognized as the restraints the Hounds of Hell used to tie up the villagers they captured. 

“You are every inch Malfoy-pretty and Black-vicious,” Greyback told him as the tech-enhanced restraints attached themselves to Draco’s wrists, suspending them above his head and stretching them outwards towards the trees the restraints were attached to. “A spitfire and a beauty, just like your Aunt Trixie. Do you know she tortured the Longbottoms to the point of insanity?”

_ Neville’s family,  _ Draco thought, and rage washed over him afresh. 

“I’m nothing like Bellatrix Lestrange,” hissed Draco, and it earned him a blow to the gut. 

“You should speak of her with more respect,” Greyback snarled as Draco heaved. “She’s the greatest of us all, that mad bitch. Unlike your stupid,  _ weak _ father.”

Once he was able to speak, Draco spat again, and said “Fuck Bellatrix, fuck my father, and fuck you.”

For all that Greyback seemed amused, his punches were nothing to laugh at. One, two, three punches to the same side that was swelling from the first blow, but Draco refused to make so much as a sound. 

“Tell me who sent you.”

Another blow, this time to the kidney. Draco shook with the force of it, but said nothing.

_ Pain is all in the mind,  _ Narcissa’s voice whispered to him as blood ran from his nose, which Greyback had just broken. _ With enough control, it can no longer hurt you.  _

Draco had never been any good at control, not really, but he found that with enough spite, it hardly mattered whether or not he was in control. Let the pain come, let the worst Greyback could do rain down on him— none of it mattered. He’d be damned if he’d give up even one slither of information to that bastard. 

When the flurry of blows stopped and Draco still held his tongue, Greyback growled in frustration.

“I’ll break your legs if you don’t start talking,” he threatened, but Draco only laughed.

_ Just you try _ , he thought, considering the many ways he could try weaponizing his new  _ Legilimency  _ tech.  _ Give me a fucking reason. _

Understanding seemed to dawn on Greyback then, and he turned on his heel back towards his tent. When he returned, it was with a thick chain wrapped around his knuckles. 

_ You asked for it,  _ Draco thought, and without the slightest outward sign of internal malevolence, he stopped Greyback’s blow before it ever came by sending serrated claws to rend at his consciousness. 

“Fucking hell!” cried Greyback, clutching at his head, and Draco pushed on, dredging up every memory, every sensation he’d ever felt, hoping to overwhelm his captor. 

It was risky business, delving this deep into someone’s mind— the more Draco was able to see of another person, the more of himself was vulnerable to attack— but he found himself unable to stop once he had begun. All Draco wanted was for Greyback to know pain, no matter the cost, and if his hoarse screams were any indication, Draco was doing a fine job of it. 

Soon, however, Draco began to tire, and Greyback had regained enough of himself to keep Draco out of his head momentarily while they both recovered.

“Say what you want,” panted Greyback, his voice strangely fond, like an uncle who’d just been reminded by his nephew how old he was via a lost game of rugby, “But you are  _ exactly  _ like Bellatrix. I haven’t had a mind-thrashing like that in years.”

Another pause, and then— 

“I’m going to enjoy taking the fight out of you.”

“You’ll never manage that,” Draco defiantly declared, straining against his bonds. “My father couldn’t,  _ death  _ couldn’t— you don’t stand a chance in hell.”

Greyback chuckled, rising to his feet, chain still in hand. “Oh? And how is that?”

“Try me and see, you ugly bastard.”

At that, Greyback approached once more, and Draco readied himself for a long night. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  


As dawn approached, Greyback grew weary, and Draco relaxed against his bonds as his captor turned away, none the wiser for all the bruises that littered Draco’s body.

“I  _ will  _ break you,” said Greyback as he'd left Draco there, his own body trembling and shivering from the hellish torture Draco had doled out through his new tech, “And when I do, I’ll send your head on a silver platter to your mother.”

Draco had said nothing. He  _ couldn’t _ say anything. His body quaked from the after-effects of the  _ Cruciatus  _ tech that had been used on him, and he was afraid that if he opened his mouth, he would bite right through his tongue from the way his teeth were chattering. 

_ Be strong,  _ said Narcissa’s voice inside his head,  _ what would Harry think if you were to give up now? _

_ I don’t give a flying fuck what anyone thinks right now,  _ he thought testily at the figment of his own imagination,  _ My whole body fucking hurts. _

Nevertheless, he knew the Narcissa in his head was right. There was a way out of this sticky situation— there was  _ always  _ a way out— he just had to figure out what it was. Forcing his aching brain to focus in, Draco began to recall the lessons Snape had given him in escape, espionage, and psychological manipulation.

_ Step one: Assess the situation. _

Gently, Draco pulled at the ropes that held his arms, and for all intents and purposes, they appeared to be just that— thick, knotted rope, with some microtech woven into the strands. It would take some time and effort to remove them without the release password, but as far as Draco could tell, they could absolutely be cut through. His body would also need some time to adjust to being free as well, since he couldn’t feel his arms, and the rest of him ached terribly.

_ Step two: Consider your assets and advantages. _

The sun was up, so most of the Hounds of Hell would be sleeping, which meant they were vulnerable to attack. Draco was sure that with his new tech, he could reach out and feel their consciousness, and, therefore, if any of them came too close, he could plant suggestions and eventually persuade one of them to free at least one arm before they came to their senses and he had to kill them.

_ Step three: Formulate a plan.  _

From there, it seemed rather simple— wait until one of the men got up to have a wee, make the bastard cut Draco loose, kill him, sneak into Greyback’s tent, kill the bastard in his sleep, snatch the letters, steal a horse, run like hell. 

And, remarkably, what actually happened was not so different from the plan after all.

It was almost too easy to tap into the thick skulls of one of the men passing by— all Draco had to do was reach out and he was inside the bastard's head. So drunk on stolen liquor and high on adrenaline was he that Draco's gentle, nudging suggestions became outright puppeteering, and, as it turned out, he even knew the password to release the ropes that bound Draco. Once the password had been spoken, it was both Draco's duty and pleasure to slit open the other man's throat and slip away, as silent as the plumes of smoke that filled the air from the burning village. 

That done, Draco stumbled onward in search of Greyback's tent. It wasn't far at all from where Draco had been held captive, but his eyes were nearly swollen shut, and each shuffle of his feet felt like an eternity. Only the thought of the people of Surrey— of all those he had seen suffer at the hands of men like Greyback and Voldemort— kept him going past the pain, past the weakness in his muscles. 

_ Harry wouldn't so much as flinch at something so little as this,  _ Draco hissed to himself in frustration as one of his knees threatened to give out beneath him.  _ I'll be damned if I'll let a little thrashing get the best of me! _

After what felt like millennia, Draco finally reached Greyback's tent, and entered it to find the lord already asleep. As it always was, the moment of observation before the kill was as strange as it was fascinating— as Draco loomed over Greyback, ready to strike, his intended victim slept peacefully, his face soft and almost kind— but soon the moment was over, and Draco slashed Greyback ear to ear without a hint of remorse _. _

_ Wait for me in hell,  _ thought Draco as a spasm wracked his leg,  _ and I'll kick the piss out of you there to make us even.  _

Without another thought, Draco wiped off his knife on his pants and began his search for the letters for which he had come. A brief search confirmed that Greyback's sleeping bag was empty of any letters, as were the pockets of his shirt and trousers— his rucksack revealed nothing, his dirty socks and boots the same. Belatedly, Draco realized that he might have waited to kill Greyback until after he'd extracted the location of the letters from the bastard, but Draco shoved the thought aside. As exhausted as he felt, it was likely that Greyback could have overpowered him mentally as well as physically had he not eradicated the threat the man posed. Besides, fretting wouldn't change anything— Greyback was dead, and Draco needed those damned letters.

_ Think,  _ Draco hissed at himself, frustrated.  _ What would I do if it were me?  _

And just like that, the answer came to him. 

Wincing from his injuries, Draco knelt next to Greyback's body and felt along the lifeless left arm before him. As he'd hoped, there was the distinct feeling of a metal plate beneath the skin, and with what was surely a bloody and triumphant grin, he wrenched open the compartment in the arm. Within, Draco found the letters along with what appeared to be a small flask of rum, and he grabbed both and placed them in his trouser pockets. 

Fortunately, slipping out of Greyback's tent was almost effortless. A quick sweep of Draco's  _ Legilimency  _ revealed that there was no human presence outside, and his unnaturally quiet footsteps did the rest of the work. Completely unnoticed, he slipped past rows and rows of sleeping bandits without waking a single one— and, in fact, he had managed to nick a longbow and a quiver of arrows that were resting against the front of a tent without causing a stir. Silently, Draco thanked whatever God was listening to prayers unasked, and wondered at the irony of the prayers of his old self which had gone unanswered. 

_ All I wanted as a child was to be noticed,  _ he thought, almost wistful as he made his way to where Greyback's steel horse was standing.  _ And now, my greatest strength is my ability to all but disappear.  _

Then again, it hadn't been all that important to disappear before Peter Pettigrew died, along with Draco's innocence. Before that, he'd had a home he cherished, a family he loved— and after, there was only a trail of darkness and tears. 

_ Act now, angst later,  _ Draco thought sternly to himself as he approached Greyback's mount.  _ You can ponder the meaning of life  _ after  _ you're certain you'll survive.  _

"Hello, darling," he spoke softly to the horse, approaching as gingerly as he had before. "It's me again. Do you remember?"

The horse snorted. 

Draco smiled. "I'll take that as a yes. So, what'll it be? Will you let me hitch a ride with you nicely? Or will there be a bit of reprogramming involved?"

Seeking the answer to his question, Draco stretched out a hand to pat the horse's metal neck. He went slowly, and though the horse shifted skittishly at first, he was eventually allowed to press his hand to cold metal. Encouraged, he kept speaking in low, gentle tones, hoping to distract that animal from his actions. 

"That's a good boy— girl—  _ thing  _ you are," he said soothingly, easing his foot into one stirrup. "How lovely that you're so sweet and nice and not a threat to life and limb. You know, I once knew a horse called Buckbeak that was positively dreadful— though of course you would have no relation, I'm sure. Family  _ is  _ quite important, you know, makes a person who they are, or so my father would say. Hmm, I wonder if you know my father…"

In one smooth motion, Draco slung one leg gracefully over the side of the horse, and so happy was he to have gained proper seating at last that he almost didn't notice the whir of newly activated machinery, or the four pairs of glowing red eyes peering out from the darkness.

Almost. 

At the sight of the metal hounds that were surrounding him and his horse, Draco instinctively dug his heels into the metal flanks of his mount and shouted a mighty "Yah!" that probably woke every bandit in the camp. Instantly, the horse reared on its back legs, charging forth at breakneck speed as Draco hung on for dear life. If Draco were honest with himself, Greyback's horse was the fastest he'd ever ridden, and yet even as it soared over nearly impossible obstacles, the hounds were close on its heels, working ceaselessly to close the gap between themselves and their prey. 

_ I'm coming home, Harry,  _ Draco thought, leaning forward as the horse galloped on in the direction of London,  _ but you had better be ready to face what you find when I ride in!  _

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


The day of the Weasley wedding, Neville was stuck on guard duty. 

Granted, it wasn't all that bad— Neville would only miss the actual ceremony, since his shift would let him off in time for the reception— but it still felt kind of shitty to be the odd man out yet again. Besides, Neville had never been to a proper wedding before, unless he were to count witnessing his second cousin twice removed have a shotgun wedding to her seventeen year-old boyfriend, herself being only fifteen and quite pregnant. In any case, Neville had been glad to have the opportunity to witness something born of love until he'd been told he'd miss out on it because he was assigned to pace around the perimeter of The Garrison while doing his best to appear intimidating. 

_ Ah, well, c'est la vie,  _ he thought with a heavy sigh, trying to catch a glimpse of the wedding party through the open gate of The Garrison, as the bride had chosen to hold the ceremony outdoors in front of the fountain of lions spitting water into the air a couple yards past the entrance.  _ At least it's boring enough to numb the senses until my shift is over and I can join the others. _

Well, at least that was true until it wasn't. 

Ten minutes before the end of Neville's shift, terrified shrieks and an awful clamor could be heard about a block away. A few seconds later, a single rider appeared around the bend, galloping at a speed that shouldn't have been possible, even on a steel horse. It was clear from the way the rider was jostling painfully in the saddle that he was just barely able to hang on, and as the horse and rider drew closer, the reason for such a punishing pace was revealed. 

A pack of four mechanical hounds rounded the corner a few yards behind the horse and rider, and before Neville could make heads or tails of the situation, the horse collapsed, throwing the rider from his seat. 

"Watch out!" Neville called to the rider, his body already springing into action. "On your feet, move!"

Even as he sprinted forward, his assault rifle trained at the hounds, Neville knew he'd never make it in time to save the rider. There was just too much distance between himself and the other, and too little distance between the hounds and their quarry. Even if the poor bastard managed to make it to his feet in time, the hounds were faster, stronger, and always went for the throat— there would be no escape for him, and Neville's heart sank at the prospect of watching someone be torn limb from limb right before his eyes. 

_ Stand up,  _ Neville thought towards the rider, firing at the hounds even though his bullets only bounced off their metal plating.  _ At least die on your feet, give me some time to even  _ try  _ to save you!  _

And miraculously, the rider did. 

But instead of turning to run in the opposite direction, the rider pushed himself onto his feet, grabbed a bow that he somehow hadn't broken in his fall, and started off at a half-limping sprint— not in the opposite direction, but  _ straight towards the pack _ , nocking an arrow as he went. 

"You mad bastard!" Neville called, caught somewhere between anger, disbelief, and morbid appreciation. "Run the  _ other  _ way!"

Neville might have imagined it, but he could have  _ sworn  _ he saw the rider turn and smirk at him before facing off with the closest hound, which leapt into the air to tear out his throat.

With agility that Neville had never seen the equal of before, the bow-wielding stranger dropped into a slide, drawing his bow back simultaneously. The hound, which had cleared the ground in its leap for the rider's throat, missed its mark, sailing above its intended target. In the split-second opening provided by the quick slide, the rider loosed an arrow that struck straight through the weak spot just above the hound's metal chest, killing it instantly. 

"Hell yeah!" Neville shouted, grinning fiercely, and he himself managed to down the next hound with a lucky shot to the weak point between its eyes. "Bloody fantastic!"

And it  _ was _ bloody fantastic— until the next hound latched onto the rider's raised arm (which saved his throat from the same fate). 

By that time, though, Neville was finally close enough to do some real damage— without a second thought, he drew his bowie knife and drove it through the skull of the third hound, and managed to do the same to the fourth before it could sink its deadly teeth into any more body parts. That done, Neville turned to address the fallen rider, to ask where he had come from and what the hell he was doing being chased by a pack like that, but looked over to find himself staring at a pair of badly worn cargo pants, as the rider had already stood.

"Thanks, Longbottom," said the rider with a familiar voice. "I wasn't so sure I was going to make it. On the way in, I saw… well, you wouldn't believe what I saw. I think I was hallucinating."

Neville scrambled to his feet, shocked as hell to find Draco Malfoy staring back at him, his face badly swollen and discolored with contusions. He was soaked through with sweat, stinking like a hound fresh from the hunt, and, to Neville's concern, he seemed to be leaning far, far left. 

"Here, put your weight on me," Neville said offering his shoulder, and Draco gratefully reached for him with trembling hands.

"Thanks," Draco huffed once more, his entire body shivering. "If it isn't too much trouble, I think I need a pain potion, if you have one."

And boy, if that wasn't the understatement of the year. 

"What you need is a bloody hospital," Neville replied, incredulous. "What in the blazes  _ happened _ to you?" 

At that, Draco turned, blinked, and cracked what might have been a charming smile if there were less blood on his teeth.

_ "Everything,"  _ said Draco, and Neville couldn't hold back a smile of his own. 

"I'll bet. I can't wait to hear about it once you've been seen to. The Garrison infirmary alright?"

Draco huffed a laugh. "I don't think anywhere else in town would treat me, so yes, that will do splendidly."

So on they went, with Draco half-walking, half-stumbling at Neville's side. The more they walked, the farther The Garrison seemed to get, and Neville was glad to finally pass through the arched entrance to The Garrison without falling over with Draco in tow. 

"I can't feel my legs," said Draco, wobbling a bit, and Neville began to look around for someone to call to help before he and Draco somehow took a tumble that Draco couldn't afford to take. 

As Neville scanned the area, he knew his options were few. The other Gate Guards wouldn't be able to help— their duty was to watch for more metal hounds and keep the perimeter secure. There were precious few Garrison folks milling about who didn't have a job, since the business district and housing districts were farther in, and those who  _ were  _ milling about were either too drunk or too preoccupied to help, but it didn't take long for Neville's famously bad luck to prove itself absent as his eyes landed on the best possible help he could ever have asked for. 

Over by the fountain, where the wedding had taken place, Harry and Ginny were standing closely to one another, laughing at some shared joke. They were still dressed up from the ceremony, and Neville couldn't help but notice that they made quite a handsome pair— in fact, they looked much like some celebrity couple out of a magazine. As resplendent as Ginny was in her storm-gray bridesmaid dress, Harry was her perfect equal, dressed in a tux the color of charcoal, and Neville hesitated calling out to them for a moment, thinking of how awfully hard bloodstains were to get out of satin. Then, abruptly, Draco froze beside him, going absolutely rigid in his motionlessness.

"Draco?" Neville asked, turning to face him, "Are you alright?"

Draco was very much not alright. 

Neville turned immediately, prepared to call out to Harry and Ginny for help, but as his eyes landed on Harry— who was kissing Ginny's cheek— the very air around him seemed to shift, to waver, and become unstable. Suddenly he felt cold all over, numb in his hands and fingers, and beneath it all, there was a lancing pain in his chest so severe that he doubled over with the force of it. 

_ What is this feeling?  _ he thought, struggling to breathe past the pain.  _ This is…  _

Draco turned away, limping off in the opposite direction. 

"Thank you, Longbottom," Draco said, his voice trembling, his hands shaking. "But I think I'll go now. I'm suddenly starting to feel much better— yes, I tell you, it's the strangest thing. I feel nothing at all." 

"Draco, wait!" Neville called out, stumbling forward to grab at Draco's sleeve, but he was shoved away roughly. 

"I  _ said  _ I am no longer in need of your aid." Draco's voice was cold, devoid of emotion, but Neville felt a tremor of heartache that he was beginning to understand was not his own. "I'm leaving. Do not try to stop me."

It was then that Neville understood there was nothing he could do. There was only one person he knew that could handle a volatile Draco, and he was just within shouting distance. 

"Harry!" Neville shouted, and the pain in his chest exploded, knocking him to his knees as Harry looked around for the direction of Neville's voice. "Harry, come quick! He's wounded!"

Luckily, Neville didn't have to turn to know that Draco had begun to force himself into a run, fleeing from those that would help him— between the pulsating pain in his chest and the lack of feeling in the rest of him, Neville couldn't have moved if he tried. It was so much, the cold, the numb, the anguish… and yet it seemed distant, as though it was a blizzard that Neville was simply caught in the middle of. 

_ Draco…  _ Nevile thought, gasping with the pressure in his head,  _ is this what you're feeling? How do you feel so intensely...and what could cause you such pain? _

The last thing Neville heard before he succumbed to the darkness that pulled him under was the sound of heavy footsteps passing him by, and the cry of Draco's name from Harry's lips.

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Pansy was just finishing her late brunch with Blaise when she felt it. 

_ "Draco,"  _ she gasped as the sensation of accidentally swallowing an ice cube washed through her entire body. "Something has happened to Draco."

In front of her, Blaise shuddered. 

"I feel it too," he said, then paused for a moment, frowning. "Are you sure this is him?"

Pansy nodded. "It's kind of like having him in my head except… somehow less invasive this time."

"Less invasive… how can you  _ stand  _ more invasive?"

"Later," she replied, hurriedly flinging down enough money to pay for the meal. "I have to go to him, he's hurt."

Blaise's frown deepened. "Pansy, don't be rash. It could be a setup."

Pansy shook her head. She knew she could never explain to Blaise what Draco's mental presence was like, or how impossible it was for deception to take place via  _ Legilimency,  _ but deep down in her heart, she knew that this was Draco's genuine, earnest cry for help. Given that it seemed to be somewhat diluted, Pansy could only assume that he'd entered the town Garrison-side, which in all likelihood meant that he was projecting his emotions unconsciously, and was no longer fully in control of his own tech. 

"Don't worry about me. Just make sure my watch shift is covered, just in case."

With that, Pansy turned on her heel, activating her  _ Apparition  _ tech to take her to The Garrison as she blatantly ignored Blaise's frustrated warnings that rang out as she left. 

The sight Pansy was greeted with when she arrived smack-bang in front of the gate of The Garrison had her torn between laughter and tears— for it appeared that Draco was indeed back, and seriously injured, but Longbottom was curled up in the fetal position a few feet away, and Potter, despite his obvious efforts, was failing miserably at trying to subdue his husband while Ginevra watched, her gaze flitting worriedly from Longbottom's whining form to Potter and Draco's pitiful slap-fight of a row as she clutched painfully at her own chest. 

"Unhand me, you cretin!"

"I will  _ not!" _

"You will so! I don't want any bloody part of you and your  _ frolicking. _ "

"Frolicking? Who's fucking frolicking, Draco? I've missed you terribly, and now you're bleeding everywhere and I swear to Christ—"

Draco, having obviously had quite enough of the conversation, slammed his head forwards, effectively stunning Potter long enough to wrench away.

"Oi!" cried Potter, bringing his hand up to his abused nose, "Get back here, Draco Malfoy, this instant!" 

"You're not the boss of me," Draco replied over one shoulder, somehow seeming as haughty as ever even though he was limping something terrible. "I bet you think this is some sort of punishment, don't you, you just  _ had  _ to get even—"

"What the  _ fuck  _ are you on about?"

As enjoyable as watching the disastrous duo having it out was, Draco was losing blood at rate alarming enough that Pansy felt the need to intervene. As casually as she could manage, she stepped forward and tapped Potter on the shoulder. 

"If you'll catch him and hold him still," she proposed with a meaningful look, "I'll do the honors."

Potter, though shocked for a moment, completely understood. He nodded, and within a couple seconds, Draco was subdued and struggling against Harry's thickly-muscled arms. 

"Bloody fucking hell, Draco, can you not? You've already broken my nose, do you think you can leave my collarbones intact?"

"Not bloody likely," grumbled Draco, who had yet to spot Pansy making her way over. 

"Make it fast, Parkinson, I can't hold him much longer," grunted Harry, and it was then that Draco realized exactly what was happening. 

"Pansy—" he began, looking more and more panicked by the minute, " Pansy, I don't want to be here, I  _ can't  _ be here, this is—"

Pansy reared back with her fist and slammed it right into Draco's already-bruised jaw, knocking him out entirely. Only once Draco was limp in Potter's arms did Pansy breathe a sigh of relief, and she felt her own shoulders sag with the relief of the weight of worry she had carried. 

"What the hell?" squeaked Ginevra, her eyes wide as Draco slumped in Harry's arms. "That's bloody barbaric!"

Pansy sighed internally.

_Barbaric,_ she thought glumly, _Just what you want_ _your crush to think of you as._

"It's the best way with Draco," said Harry, who had swept said disaster up into a bridal carry. "Less heartache and broken bones for everyone involved. Besides, there's no gentler hand than that of Pansy Parkinson."

That last bit was said with a wink, and Ginevra's face turned more red than her hair. For all that Potter was an absolute shit, Pansy couldn't help but feel genuine affection for him and his matchmaking efforts— even as he turned around and started a brisk walk in the direction of the infirmary, Pansy couldn't manage to feel too terribly hard at him even though he'd left her quite alone and terrified with the most beautiful weasel on the Weasley family tree. 

"I see," said Ginevra almost to herself as she fell in step beside Pansy, who followed Harry past the Garrison gates, albeit at a slower pace. "So you've done this before, then? Knocked a man out for, er, medicinal purposes?"

"Oh, nobody worry about me," Longbottom grumbled, standing and brushing the gravel from his person as he effectively derailed the conversation. "I'm all fine and dandy."

"Terribly sorry, Longbottom," Pansy said over her shoulder with a tell-tale smile. "I used up my empathy quota for you the other night."

"Actually, I should be apologizing to you," Longbottom replied as he caught up, his expression just a bit sheepish. "For the thing in the pub the other day. I was a royal arse."

Pansy couldn't hold back a snort. There was nothing to apologize for— she had quite forgotten it entirely, and even when she remembered it, all she saw was Ginevra's pretty freckled face contorted in shock and awe at the dick measuring contest between herself and Carver.

"Oh please, darling, it's nothing," she grinned. "I grew up with Draco Malfoy, lived with him, even— you'll have to do a fair bit more than that to hurt  _ my _ feelings."

At that, Ginevra's brow creased.

"So he's mean and spiteful all the time, and not just to me?"

"Well, he means it lovingly," Pansy mused. "Usually, anyways. You have to learn when 'fuck you' translates to 'Oh Pansy, you're the dearest friend I have in all the world, let me buy you three bottles of Ogden's and enable us to contribute to the hardening of our livers together,' and when it doesnt. It's a very fine distinction, mind, but one I can make fairly well."

"So that whole fiasco with screaming himself hoarse at Harry was affection?" asked Ginevra, amused. 

Pansy smiled. "Of the most heartfelt kind."

"Bloody mad if you ask me," said Longbottom. "But what do I know? I've never been in love."

Ginevra blinked, shocked. "Never."

Longbottom shrugged. "Never."

"How charming," Pansy chuckled, then paused, glancing at Ginevra for a moment, then looked away. "One thing you're right about though— it  _ is  _ bloody mad. It's always that way, when it's real. Granted, our Harry and Draco are quite a bit worse than the usual, but they've also been through quite a bit more than other people, so I guess it makes sense."

"I suppose so," said Longbottom, but Pansy barely heard him. She was too busy looking at Ginevra, who was looking back at her. 

"It's mad, I think," said Ginevra slowly, as though thinking every word through, "And it can be extremely unexpected, but… I also think that makes it quite special indeed."

"Er, aren't either of you a bit worried about Draco?" asked Longbottom, glancing ahead to Harry's labored movements, "He doesn't look so well."

_ Of course I’m worried,  _ Pansy wanted to snap,  _ but that bugger has— at the very least!— seven lives left out of the nine he was blessed with, and I'm trying to genuinely bloody flirt for the first time since I was a kid! _

Before any of that could be uttered, however, Ginevra cut in to save the day. 

"Of course we are!" she said with a very convincing worried frown. "Harry looks like he's struggling— maybe you should go help him!"

"O-oh, right!" said Longbottom, turning red as he most likely realized just what, exactly, was taking place. "Well, cheers then!"

Once Longbottom was out of earshot, Ginevra sighed. "Finally. I've been… meaning to ask you something, Pansy."

All of the sudden, time slowed down, but Pansy's heartbeat sped up. 

"R-really?" 

Ginevra nodded, smiling so sweetly that Pansy thought her poor heart might burst at the sight of it. 

"Yeah. I was wondering if I could eat you out to—"

Ginevra froze, turned crimson, and then stammered out the rest of her words all together, which reminded Pansy of someone else's nervous habit. 

"ImeancanItakeyououttoeat,likeadate!"

Pansy couldn't help but smile. 

"Well," she said, looping an arm through Ginevra's, "For starters, I would  _ love  _ for you to take me out to eat. And as for the first bit… that depends entirely on you, darling."

Much to Pansy's interest and amusement, Ginevra turned so red she was nearly purple, tried to stammer out more words, but only managed to get a few syllables out before snapping her jaws shut entirely.

_ There's a dear,  _ thought Pansy as they strolled to the infirmary.  _ Words are so unnecessary when it's the right person. _

Then, thinking briefly of Potter and Draco, she corrected herself. 

_ Well, when it's the right  _ woman,  _ at least. Men are bloody hopeless. _

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Neville, for one, was absolutely sick of the screaming. 

"I  _ still  _ don't know what the bloody hell you're on about, Draco Malfoy!"

"Back to  _ Malfoy  _ is it? Like nothing else matters but that?"

Harry's frustrated growl ripped right through the walls and assaulted Neville's tender brain ears-first. 

"I'm telling you, I don't understand any-fucking-thing you've said!"

"Of course you don't, you barely have the wherewithal to process the word 'no', much less polysyllabic speech, you oaf!"

"My God, will you stop fucking screaming and let Luna medicate you, or am I going to have to knock you out again?"

"I bloody  _ hate  _ it when you do that!!"

"Your face has been completely rearranged anyways, and you were in utter hysteria when I found you— what was I meant to do?"

"Oh, I don't know,  _ let me go?  _ The way I specifically asked you to?"

"Well, yeah, except one little thing," said Harry, and Neville heard the clang of metal against the plastic rails of the hospital bed Draco occupied. "This fucking ring, that says  _ for better or fucking worse,  _ I'm to take care of you."

"Oh, that's rich, you bilge-sucking blight! The tatters of our marriage have nothing to do with this!"

"That so? Then where's your fucking ring, bastard?"

"I threw it in the Thames!"

"You bloody liar, it's around your neck on that stupid fucking pretentious chain!"

"Well, perhaps I should have done!"

They'd been at it for fifteen minutes— the entire time Draco had been awake— and Neville was starting to feel queasy from what Luna had described as Draco's 'emotional discharge.' Neville had no idea how Harry could tolerate it at close range. It was so intense, like drowning, except there was no water and lots wondering if this is how a fish feels on the end of a hook.

"This is exhausting," said Ginny, who was nursing a cup of tea brought to her by Pansy. "I can't even keep up with it anymore. Is there a tally system for this? A drinking game, perhaps?"

"What, a shot every time Harry says any variant of fuck?" Neville proposed, grinning a bit despite himself. 

Ginny laughed. "I was thinking more along the lines of a shot every time Draco calls Harry some variant of stupid."

"What about both?" suggested Pansy, and Neville snorted. 

"I don't want to bloody  _ die _ , which I would do at the rate they're going," he said, wincing as something was smashed. "Alcohol poisoning isn't a pretty way to go."

Before Pansy could reply, there was an ominous  _ thump _ from Draco's room, and the door swung open as Luna dragged Harry out by his feet, a dart stuck in his neck. 

"Sorry, loves," Luna said to no one in particular, dropping Harry's legs on the floor once he was out of the room. "It took me a while to find the right darts for the blowgun once I'd realized they weren't willing to listen to reason, but I eventually found the right ones. At least, I'm  _ pretty  _ sure yellow was for humans and green was for beasts of burden… anyways, look after him, will you?"

Without waiting for a reply, Luna turned on her heel and shut the door behind her, leaving Harry face-down in the hall. 

"Well," said Pansy, "That's… surely something."

Ginny giggled. "Oh dear. We'd better go fetch Ron and Hermoine. They'll know what to do with this mess."

Neville couldn't help but agree. When it came to Harry-wrangling, Ron and Hermoine were the best of the best. 

"I'm pretty sure they're at the bar they reserved for their reception. I can take you two there if you'd like."

The unspoken "and buy myself enough drink to forget this whole ordeal" hung heavy in the air, but no one addressed it. 

"Splendid," Pansy declared, standing from her stiff hospital chair. "Let's go then. I can't wait to meet the rest of the famed Weasley clan."

Neville valiantly stifled his laughter. He was certain there was nothing Pansy wanted less, but Ginny's face lit up like fairy lights. 

"Oh, you'll love them! Especially Charlie— you know, you might have a bit more in common than you'd think, what with the whole dragon-wrangling thing… "

_ Young love,  _ thought Neville, grinning as he led the way.  _ Barking bloody mad, the whole thing, but sweet.  _

It didn't take long to reach the wedding reception, which was looking more like a raucous party than a formal event thanks to the Weasley boys and their proclivity for mischief. As they entered, Pansy and Ginny made their way over to Ron and Hermione to tell them about Harry, whom they'd left face-down in the hall, and Neville decided to make himself comfortable in a corner where he could people-watch and eavesdrop. To his surprise, there was quite a bit of buzz in the air, and all of it was somehow about Draco, despite no one witnessing the most recent altercation he'd been involved with except Harry, Ginny, Pansy, and Neville himself. 

"I hear that blond ponce and Harry are back together," said Bill Weasley, the scarred brother whose arm was draped around Fleur, his gorgeous French wife. "Heard it was a bloody big fuss too."

Charlie, the  _ DragonTech  _ AI programmer, shrugged.  _ "I _ heard he was dead, so I'm not going to believe anything until I see it."

"If it's that Draco Malfoy character we're referring to, his father Lucius was involved in the raids around the last uprising, the one where— "

"We know, Percy," scowled George, the surviving half of the set of Weasley twins. "This is a wedding, yeah? I'd rather not talk about it. No need to rip open old wounds at a time like this."

As Neville understood it, Lucius Malfoy was a bad, bad man, but now he was sure that it was more personal than that for the Weasley family. If he led and funded the raid that cost the Weasley's a son and brother, Neville could understand their bitterness even more. 

Bill nodded, and changed subjects. "Didn't 'Mione say something about a new one?"

"Something to do with the same blond ponce in question," Charlie said, taking a sip from his pint. "Except he's playing the good guy this time. Once again, I'll have to see it to believe it."

_ I believe that  _ he  _ thinks he's doing the right thing,  _ Neville thought to himself, remembering the bruises and broken bones in Draco's face.  _ Whether or not that's the best thing for everyone, I don't know. _

What a sobering thought. 

Neville shook his head, knocking back another drink. It would be what it would be— all he could hope for was that Harry and Draco somehow balanced each other out well enough to avoid any sort of wide-scale catastrophe. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  
  
  


When Harry woke, he was no longer face-down on the floor, and had thankfully been deposited into a chair. It took him a while to gather his wits, but once he did, he was in an even more foul mood than  _ before  _ he was hit with the tranquilizer dart.

"What the hell does he  _ mean _ , 'punishment'?" he grumbled, sinking further down in his chair as he sulked. "I didn't do a bloody thing but pine after he left, and now it's like before but  _ worse. _ "

It was so bad, in fact, that Luna had tried to kick him out of Draco's room in the infirmary from the start, saying something about the strength of his emotions affecting Draco's subconscious. Bloody  _ bollocks  _ if anyone asked him— which they didn't. _ Why  _ they didn’t was beyond Harry, since, with the exception of Pansy Parkinson, he knew his husband the best of anyone. Draco was just being his usual hard-to-live-with self and there was nothing for it, but bloody hell if Luna would believe that even if it  _ did  _ come from the man who bloody married the bastard. 

"Cheer up, mate," said Ron through a mouthful of chips. "If your formative years of marriage are any indication, the make-up sex'll be so bloody fantastic you'll forget why you were angry to start with."

"And keep everyone else from sleeping to boot," interjected Hermoine with a giggle, and Ron beamed at her. 

"Right as usual, Mrs. Weasley," Ron said, and they leaned over Harry to kiss.

And kiss.

And kiss.

"Alright, alright!" Harry scoffed, pushing at both of them even as he smiled in affection. "I get it, you're bloody married."

"That we are," said Ron, his voice dipping low into a smug rumble, and Hermoine giggled once more. "Give us a few more hours and we'll put your roof-raising to shame."

"Oh shut up," Harry laughed. "Like you don't do that anyway, you pair of loons. Say, speaking of raising a roof, where did the rest of the Weasley brood get off to?"

Hermione shrugged. "They're currently enjoying the reception without us."

Immediately, guilt washed over Harry. 

"Oh bugger, I didn't even think about that," he said, deflating instantly. "This is your wedding day— you should go enjoy it after all the planning and money and— "

"Harry."

Ron's voice stopped Harry in his tracks. 

"Do we honestly look like we would rather be anywhere else?"

Hermoine, still in her wedding dress, was smiling radiantly, raising a brow as if daring Harry to challenge her husband. Ron, for his part, was a warm and encouraging presence, and Harry shook his head with a laugh. 

"No," he said, grabbing each of their hands in his own. "I suppose not."

Right about that time, a row broke out across the hall in Draco's room, and Harry felt that awful sensation in his gut once more, twisting, pulling, stabbing with the pain Draco was feeling. Harry was on his feet the instant it began, but Ron and Hermoine each grabbed an arm and pulled him back into his seat, shushing him and cocking their head to the side to better hear what Draco was screaming at the top of his lungs. 

"No more! I can't bear it!"

"They're hurting him," Harry growled, moving forward, but Ron yanked him back again. 

"No, they're not," said Ron, looking straight into his eyes. "They're Healers, they're just doing their job. Draco is a drama queen— we both know that."

"This doesn't feel that way," Harry protested, but he knew Ron was probably right. 

Hermoine pursed her lips. "Maybe you need to leave for a bit— you probably need a break from all this tension anyway."

Draco let out another yelp, and Harry made up his mind. 

"You know what, I think you're right.” Harry stood, stretching his tense muscles as his brain sparked with a new idea. “I think I will take a break. Do you mind staying here for just a minute while I go?”

“Of course not,” said Ron with a raucous grin. “We might not be in this specific spot when you come back, but we’ll be in the hospital.”

Hermione’s smile was somehow both deviant and radiant. “If we’re not right here, check the storage closets first.”

“How you two are both the best and the worst, I’ll never bloody know,” said Harry with a shake of his head and a fondness too big for his own heart to bear. “If I’m not back in an hour, I’m probably so drunk I can’t see, so just go home and enjoy your wedding night.”

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


When Draco woke, light was streaming in through his window at a low angle, and he realized that he’d probably lost several hours of his day to unconsciousness. 

Almost everything hurt, which was to be expected after the kind of day Draco had. The ache of his weary legs and the saddle sores he bore from his rough ride were nearly unbearable, and his stomach lurched with the need for food and water. Thankfully, however, he couldn’t even feel the arm whose flesh had been torn by the hound, and his face must have been partially healed, because he could see pretty well and it didn’t hurt to blink— but that, all the aches and pains and numbness of his body, were all background to the screaming of his broken heart.

Needless to say, he hadn’t expected to see Harry with Ginevra so soon after his departure. Of course, he hadn’t dismissed the possibility of such a thing— he  _ had  _ released Harry of the ties that bound them and had genuinely meant that he wanted Harry to be happy, after all— but seeing Harry laugh with that red-headed blight on society and kiss her so tenderly after not even a full month of Draco's absence had torn something loose inside of Draco. He felt off-balance, unhinged in a way that was more unsettling than anything he’d ever experienced. 

Perhaps the worst part of it was that, after careful consideration, Draco realized that this was how Harry must have felt when Draco was still Dudley’s bit on the side. 

At first, he’d thought maybe that was Harry’s way of punishing him for the Dudley incident— it certainly  _ felt  _ like a punishment— but soon it became apparent that Harry was doing nothing of the kind. Indeed, Draco should have known better than to even think such a thing. Harry was nothing if not sincere, and after seeing the affection between him and the Weaslette, Draco was certain what he saw was real. All that was left to determine if there was anything still lingering between himself and Harry was whether or not the stubborn bugger was still in the room when Draco woke from the effects of the dart that had stopped their row, and now that Draco was awake and Harry wasn’t there, it was quite decided in his mind.

There was nothing left.

_ I should at least apologize,  _ he thought, closing his eyes against the tide of sorrow that threatened to overwhelm him.  _ I did free him from me— I had no right to be angry, even if I was hurt.  _

The door to Draco’s hospital room creaked, and then— 

“Still asleep, are you?”

Draco started, his eyes opening of their own accord. Standing in the doorway was none other than Harry Potter, with a rather large keyboard under one arm and a stand for it in the other. He looked sweaty, as though he’d been running, but nothing about him seemed tired or anything less than ebullient. Even from his place on the bed, Draco could see the shimmer in those bottle-green eyes he loved so well, and his heart broke anew. 

_ If ever there was a time for an apology, it would be now, before he breaks the news about Ginevra to me in bloody song or something,  _ Draco thought, but before he could open his mouth, Harry tested out the keys with a few chords and shocked him into silence.

“I learned to play a couple years ago, after…  _ after, _ ” said Harry, his soft smile never wavering as he processed Draco’s shock. “Without you, I was spiralling, and this— it helped me.”

This time, Draco did open his mouth, intent on apologizing, but Harry kept talking.

“Now, I know that there’s something wrong here, and as we previously discussed, I have no fucking clue what it is, but I went out for a walk, had a think, and came up with this conclusion:

“You see, you’re angry with me, but I’m not angry with you— even though you broke my nose and bruised my collarbones, I’m just... Draco, I’m just really glad to have you home. And at this point, I really don’t give a single flying fuck if you’re happy to see me or not. You’re mad, and that’s fine, but I’ll be damned if I’ll let you keep me from showing you how I feel in a way that  _ isn’t  _ screaming.”

Draco’s voice died in his throat, and was replaced by a lump the size of a baseball.

“So anyways, I’ve already cleared this with Luna and she’s put up privacy tech,” said Harry, tapping out a scale, “And I’ve decided to sing at you until you don’t hate me quite so much anymore.”

Harry’s fingers found a familiar melody, and Draco trembled as he recognized it as one of his favorite oldies. A few moments of quiet notes passed, and Harry drew in a breath, only to release it to sing the first verse of the song in a voice of soft, velvet thunder. 

_ “Turn around—  _ _ Every now and then I get a little bit lonely and you're never coming 'round, _

_ “Every now and then I get a little bit tired of listening to the sound of my tears. _ _ ” _

Draco’s body broke out in chills and tremors. Briefly, he wondered if his heart could withstand so much— Harry’s thoughts, his emotions, were overwhelming, all-consuming, and utterly unbelievable. Before, when they were arguing, those feelings had been fiery and fierce for certain, but that was nothing compared to this. Now, under the onslaught of such raw emotion, Draco felt as though he were a hare in the middle of a raging firestorm with nowhere to go. It didn’t matter that a second voice wasn’t singing to cover all the lyrics, or that the lyrics seemed to be in the wrong place every now and then— the song was beautiful and powerful and Draco felt utterly flattened beneath the weight of the meaning Harry thrust behind it. On and on he sang, either unknowing or uncaring of how affected Draco was, and then— 

—And then Harry’s voice did  _ that thing _ , with the glorious belting-rasp, and Draco thought he was going to combust.

_ “Every now and then I fall apart... every now and then I fall apart, and I need you now tonight, and I need you more than ever… _

_ “I don't know what to do, I'm always in the dark, we're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks! I really need you tonight, forever's gonna start tonight. Forever's gonna start tonight. _

_ “Once upon a time I was falling in love, but now I’m only falling apart… Nothing I can say, total eclipse of the heart.” _

Draco couldn’t help himself— he began to cry.

The music stopped, and time seemed to stand still. 

“Draco, love, are you alright?” There was gentle concern in Harry’s voice, and Draco was glad tears were clouding his vision so that he didn’t have to see the pity he knew he’d find in Harry’s expression were he able to look at him. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, unable to think of anything else to say, and suddenly, it was all he  _ could _ say. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...”

Harry was there in an instant, and Draco was surrounded by his warmth and his scent and his touch. 

“It’s alright, sweetheart, just breathe,” said Harry brushing away a tear with a calloused thumb. “I’m here. Let it go— I’m not going anywhere.”

And somehow, that made it a little okay. 

“I shouldn’t have been so angry,” Draco choked out behind a sob, “I should have seen it coming, I should have known—”

“Should have known what?”

Draco turned to look at Harry, who was looking right back at him with love in his eyes, and he felt sick as he answered.

“That you— that Ginevra— that she would be the next in line once I— that— ”

Draco broke off into a sob, and Harry went frightfully still.

“Draco, what did you see?”

“I was walking towards the gates— well, Longbottom was helping me because my legs— anyway— and you were there, and you were smiling and you were wearing a  _ tux  _ of all bloody things— and then she— and then you— there was a kiss and I— ”

Draco looked down at his hands and willed them to  _ stop shaking _ , but Harry took hold of Draco’s chin and turned his head so that they were looking into each other’s eyes. 

“Please tell me,” said Harry, his voice laden with pain, “That you don’t think that Ginny and I are back together.”

Draco blinked, lost in shades of green, and looked away. “Well, you are, aren’t you?”

Harry huffed half a laugh, then pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Draco, love of my life, center of my world, I was laughing at Ginny because she was a nervous wreck, and I kissed her cheek for good luck because, in a fit of old-fashioned lesbian panic-bravery, she’d finally made up her mind to ask Parkinson out on a date.”

_ “Pansy?” _

Harry nodded, smiling like a fool, and Draco sat back against his pillows, reeling. 

“And you say Ginevra’s a lesbian?”

“Oh yeah, definitely.”

Draco’s world spun topsy-turvy, and he gripped the railings of his bed in an attempt to steady himself.

“... I think I might be a proper fool.”

“Well, you said it, not me,” grinned Harry, “But if it’s all the same to you, can I give my very own little fool the welcome home kiss I’ve been saving for him?”

Draco cringed. “Can you bring me a toothbrush, some toothpaste, and some water first? My mouth tastes like death.”

“I brought gum. Will that work for now until I can bribe someone else to bring it?”

Draco thought for a moment, then shrugged. “I suppose, if you’re willing to give it a go.”

“Good,” said Harry, brushing a lock of hair from Draco’s forehead, “Because I don’t intend to leave your side for a single second.”

Warmth enveloped Draco then, and he knew everything would be alright. 

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Draco was much improved by the next day, but there was a new tension to his frame that worried Harry. He woke early, before the dawn, rubbing at the skin of his chest that lay right above his heart— Harry had asked if he was feeling alright, but Draco had just smiled tightly and complained of being overtired. Ordinarily, Harry would have accepted it as truth, but the way Draco failed to meet his eye along with the fact that he hadn't breathed a word of what had transpired on his mission was suspicious enough to warrant caution. There was something afoot, and Harry knew not what nor how it was or was supposed to be taken. 

"Go back to sleep," Draco had told him then, after he'd glanced at the time. "We'll talk more when everyone is awake."

At the time, Harry hadn't known what to think, so he'd done as he was told. Upon waking a few hours later and finding Draco gone, however, he'd realized he might have made a bit of a mistake in not pressing his husband for answers sooner. 

"Luna, where is Draco?" Harry asked as Luna brushed past him on her morning rounds. "He wasn't in the hospital bed when I woke, and I can't seem to find him anywhere."

"He went out for a walk," Luna replied with her characteristically dreamy smile. "He was feeling loads better— a bit sore, a bit shaky, but I think the only things that are really bothering him are psychological phenomena. Still, it has been a while since he left… perhaps you should go check on him?"

Harry nodded, pleased. "That sounds brilliant. He say which way he was planning on walking?"

"West of here, I think— he said he wasn't planning on going far."

"Thanks, Luna."

What Luna said was true— Draco hadn’t strayed far. He was indeed on the western edge of the hospital premises, standing alone, wrapped in only a single blanket against the chill of the winter air. Harry’s heart pounded unnaturally in his chest at the sight of his husband— he was pale and perfect in the light of day, and the serenity in his profile was reminiscent of a saint in a stained glass window.

“Or a wraith,” Draco said aloud.

“Give me a break, love,” said Harry, overcoming his shock by wrapping his arms around his husband from behind. “I wasn’t trying to project my thoughts at you. That would be way more poetic and thoughtful than anything I’m capable of thinking up.”

Draco’s chuckle vibrated through Harry’s chest. “You sang a love ballad to me yesterday.”

“What was originally a  _ vampire  _ love ballad,” Harry corrected with a smiling kiss to Draco’s neck, “And anyways, that’s not so much poetic as it is romantic.”

“Semantics. You know I think it’s sexy that you know your classics, and nothing is sexier than poeticism, romanticism, and classicism combined.”

Draco turned around then, and Harry was caught in a shimmering world of quicksilver that lay in wait for him in his lover’s eyes. Draco’s smile was small and a bit sad, but it was a smile nonetheless— he leaned forward and buried his face in the crook of Harry’s neck and sighed, emitting little waves of contentment that were likely unintentional, but wonderful nonetheless. 

“I love you,” said Harry, and Draco trembled.

“I have no idea why.”

“I have every idea why.”

The tension of all those weeks apart seemed to bleed out of them as they held each other, and Harry wondered if it was selfish that he wished the moment would never end. 

“Selfish or not, I want that too,” Draco murmured, and Harry huffed a laugh. 

“Get out of my head, darling, it’s impolite.”

“Well, stop being so loud. S’not my fault you think at full volume.”

“Maybe I just think about  _ you  _ at full volume,” Harry teased, and Draco pulled away so that Harry could see his eyes roll.

“That’s ridiculous, you’d have to think of me all the time for that.”

Harry wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, and Draco shook his head with a smile.

“Incorrigible.”

“For you? Always.”

They held each other there a little longer, enjoying the tenderness of the moment, but when Draco shivered against the chill, Harry immediately asked him if he’d rather go inside and warm up a bit before they froze to death. 

“Actually,” said Draco, looking away with a strange expression, “I need to speak with your Captain. Urgently.” 

At that, Harry frowned. “In your hospital gown?”

“If needs must. I didn’t see any of my other clothes in the infirmary, and it really must be done with all haste.”

“How about you go back to your room and rest up a bit, and I’ll go get Robards and a change of clothes for you?” Harry suggested, stroking a thumb across his husband’s cheek. “You’re still not done healing, from what I can see.”

Indeed, although there was a marked improvement from before, Draco’s face was still a bit puffy and swollen, and his head likely ached. As if to confirm Harry’s suspicions, Draco scowled, then winced with the motion of it, and sighed.

“Very well. Don’t dawdle, though, Potter.”

Harry grinned, but it was forced. “Me? Dawdle? Never.”

And dawdle he didn't. Harry might not have always had the ability to tell when Draco was hiding something, but there on the grounds of the infirmary, it was as plain as day to Harry that there was something that Draco wasn't telling him. As soon as he'd guided Draco back to his room and fussed over him a bit, Harry hopped right to his task, hoping like hell Draco would actually cooperate for once instead of making everything so bloody complicated. 

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Neville couldn't be accredited with being the most observant person in the world, but something was definitely wrong with Draco. 

Harry had knocked on Robard's door less than half an hour ago, requesting an audience with him at the hospital on Draco's behalf, and everyone else in the office (all the Weasleys at once as well as Neville himself) had all been eager to come and see what all the fuss was about as well. Of course, Neville had known from that very moment that things were likely much worse than the happy-go-lucky Weasley bunch anticipated, but he hadn't expected to find Draco sitting up in his hospital bed, already nice and settled behind his mask of cold indifference. 

“Bloody hell,” Draco said, watching the Weasleys file in one after the other, “What is this,  _ Seven Brides For Seven Brothers _ ?”

George, with a sinister scowl on his face, stepped forward. “Close. There were six of us originally— that is, before your lot killed Fred.”

Draco raised a brow, and Neville braced himself for the inevitable nuke the bastard was about to drop on the conversation. 

“I don’t have a clue who Fred is, but if my lot killed him, he ought to have smarter, better, faster, and stronger. It’s not hard to outwit an inbred if you’re fast enough on your feet. Unless, of course, he was inbred himself— which would be unsurprising, frankly, considering your obvious lack of genetic variation— which would make it another matter entirely.”

With a wild growl, George launched himself at Draco, digging his hands into white-blond hair and drawing back a sharp-boned fist. Neville moved to separate them, but he was far too slow to reign George in before anything could happen.

Fortunately for Draco, however, Harry suffered no such weakness.

With the deafening  _ crack  _ of the sound barrier breaking at Harry’s  _ Apparition,  _ Harry appeared like a phantom between George and his intended victim, grabbing George’s wrist and forcing it behind his back in a painful twist. His face was contorted into a beast-like snarl as he forced George’s arm farther back, and Neville shivered as the killing intent from Harry’s body language rolled over the room in waves.

“Harry, lay off,” said the oldest Weasley brother, stepping forward, “He’s cooled off, now let go, you’re hurting him.”

Neville would not have wanted to be on the receiving end of the hateful glare Harry directed Bill Weasley’s way, but Harry released George nonetheless, shoving the twin away from him with excessive force.

“The next person to lay so much as a hand on Draco Malfoy will lose that hand.”

Harry spoke with such finality that there wasn’t a doubt in Neville’s mind that Harry would do just as he said. The room was fraught with tension as each person looked at the other, and a dark expression crossed Gawain Robards’ face, as though he and Neville were both thinking the same thing.

_ Who knows what side Harry will be on this time if Draco is on the wrong one? _

And then, Draco did something that amazed everyone in the room. 

Hand outstretched to Harry, Draco leaned forward, and Harry leaned back into his touch, relaxing immediately at the reassurance from his lover, reducing the boiling in Harry’s blood to a faint simmer. Something seemed to be communicated between them in that moment, and a few seconds later, Draco cleared his throat, looked George Weasley in the eyes, and apologized.

“Forgive me,” said Draco, his words ripe with sincerity. “I spoke badly. I have a tendency to do that when I’m feeling… well, let us say I do it fairly often, and I seem very much like an arse. I apologize for my insensitivity and for my callousness. I’m sure it was undeserved.”

The whole room was shocked into silence. Ron’s jaw was on the floor, Hermoine’s eyes were wide as saucers, and Neville felt like he might faint. Harry, though, was smiling, and as he reached out a glowing-golden hand out to ruffle Draco’s hair, Neville thought he had never seen Harry so happy.

“No harm done,” said George once he’d found his tongue, eyeing Draco warily. “I still dislike you, but no harm done.”

At that, the entire room seemed to release a breath it had been holding, and Hermoine’s shoulders visibly sagged in relief. Ron looked between all his siblings as though they had all just witnessed a miracle, and the other brothers— excepting Percy— looked as though they might burst into laughter at any moment.

“Oi, don’t look so bloody shocked,” Draco groused, folding his arms. “I can be decent every now and again.”

That might’ve been true, but Neville would bet his life’s savings that Draco had never once apologized like that to anyone except Harry in his entire life.

“Oh, pardon me, am I interrupting something?”

Poor Arthur Weasley had unwittingly poked his head in to see what was becoming a pretty disastrous meeting. 

Just as Neville was opening his mouth to discourage him from entering, Arthur caught sight of Draco and visibly changed his expression to clearly read _I will_ _not be deterred_. Without a second thought, he squeezed his way into the crowded hospital room— despite the fact that there wasn’t room for even one more person— and through he came, navigating around everyone with agility that Neville wouldn’t have accredited him with at first glance. By some miraculous means, he also managed to get past Harry’s protective stance, all the while holding out a to-go cup of tea to Draco, whose expression had shifted from disgruntled to bewildered. 

“For you,” said Arthur, pressing the cup into Draco’s hand. “Molly— my wife— sent this with her love. She was a bit busy talking to our Ginny about something, but she figured you’d appreciate something other than the leaf water this infirmary is infamous for.”

Draco blinked, swallowed hard, then blinked again. 

_ “Why? _ Don’t you know who I am?”

Arthur thought for a minute, twirling his moustache, then nodded as though he had realized something. “Ah, yes. I suppose we haven't officially been introduced this go-around, since I only knew you as Draco Potter.”

Without the slightest hesitation, Arthur stuck out his hand and offered Draco a broad grin.

“Hullo. My name is Arthur Weasley. How do you do, Draco Malfoy?”

Draco, for his part, was looking more horrified by the minute. 

“I— Hullo, Arthur Weasley.” Draco replied, extending his hand. “After what I and my family have done to you and your family, I don’t deserve your wife’s tea, but I thank you for it anyways.” 

“Ah, I suppose you’re referring to Malfoy senior.”

Draco made a face at that. “Yes. My father, to his chagrin— and mine, for that matter. If I understand things correctly, I have much to atone for  _ this go-around _ , as you put it.”

Arthur only shook his head, smiling sadly. “You were a child when Lucius and I fought on opposite sides of a war. His sins have nothing to do with yours, or the fact that a man who has been through so much as you have these last few weeks deserves a good cuppa.”

Draco looked away.

“You humble me.”

Arthur shrugged. “I never hated your father, and I have yet to see a reason to hate his son.”

“He hated  _ you _ .” Neville sucked in a breath at that, but Draco kept going. “He was always insanely jealous of you, and I think that made it worse.”

“Jealous?” Charlie piped up, looking between his father and Draco as though they had broth grown second heads. “That rich bastard, jealous of  _ us _ ?”

Draco nodded, his eyes downcast and his sheets clenched in his fists. “Jealous of not one, not two, but  _ six  _ strong, healthy male heirs, each more virile than the last. All my father was ever able to produce was me.”

Arthur nodded, and gave another sad smile. "A singularly beautiful son, and a talented one at that— or so our Harry tells us."

Draco looked up at that, and if Neville hadn’t known better, he would have thought that Draco might have been about to cry. 

"As touching as this is, I  _ do  _ actually have work to do today," said Robards to Draco, albeit more gently than he would have to anyone from The Garrison. "What do you have to report lad, besides more bumps and bruises than I've ever seen on one bloke?"

Neville watched as Draco's face shuttered, and the mask was suddenly back, as strong and opaque as titanium. 

“Lord Vo- rather, Tom Riddle has been planning a coup-d'etat,” Draco said, leaning back into his pillows, closing his eyes to the room in faux relaxation. “There is an army moving towards London this very instant, and I know how to vanquish it with minimal bloodshed. The details are all in the letter I managed to wrest from the corpse of Lord Fenrir Greyback, after much,  _ much  _ trouble.”

“Ye gods,” said Robards, and Neville was inclined to agree. 

Draco nodded. “ _ Ye gods  _ indeed.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” asked Hermoine, squirming her way forward, “Where’s the letter?”

“Safely hidden away,” Draco replied, still not opening his eyes. “I’ll hand it over to you all once a thousand pounds is safely hidden away in my pocket.”

The whole room froze, and Neville didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. What the hell was Draco thinking? What could he possibly want with a thousand pounds? And why try to weasel it out of a room full of people that could blast him to smithereens in the space of a breath?

“Draco.” Harry’s voice was heavy with exhaustion and dark with barely-concealed anger. “What am I supposed to make of this?”

Draco shrugged. “Make of it what you will. My demand remains the same.”

Neville expected Harry to make threats or lash out, but instead, he only shook his head and sighed. 

“For the sake of England, do the right thing for once.”

At that, Draco sat bolt upright, and the whole room flinched at the ferocity that lit his features. 

"I did the right thing once, and if I recall correctly, you killed me for it, dear husband," Draco snarled viciously from beneath his blankets, and Neville was both horrified and elated to realize that he looked rather like a furious hedgehog with his hair sticking up in every direction.

"Are we still fucking on that?" Harry crossed his arms, defiant. "You lived, get over it!"

“Why  _ yes,  _ we are still on that, Potter— I may have forgiven you for it, but I have not forgotten, and if you’ll shut your  _ fat gob  _ and think for a moment, you might understand what is afoot!”

Harry pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. 

“Oh bloody hell, who gives a damn anymore,” Ron grumbled, folding his arms. “Let the army come, we’ll ready ourselves and face whatever challenge it presents.”

Draco scoffed. “And you will all die horribly without this information and my help."

"Are you really so heartless, then, as to deny people you care for the help that they need?"

The room went silent as Arthur Weasley spoke up, and Neville's heart leapt into his throat. 

"Not heartless. Prudent." Draco's face remained stony, though how Neville would never be sure. "Please Mr. Weasley, if you love your sons and this kingdom, you'll make these half-wits see sense."

Arthur Weasley considered Draco for a moment, his eyes searching for something in his countenance that Neville knew he himself would never be able to see. After a few seconds had passed, understanding lit his features, and he turned to look at Robards— who had remained frightfully silent all the while— and nodded.

"If you have it in your vault, give it to him," said Arthur, firm and sure. "I don't know what he's hiding, but I've seen that look before on many a man who had everything to lose. Give it to him, and you won't regret it."

"Alright, lad." Robards' face was grim, but determined. "The money is yours, now hand over the letter and start talking."

Draco shook his head. "I want it in my hands."

"Is he always this difficult?" muttered Bill to Ron, who nodded before the question was even finished. 

"Hellfire and damnation, I can't exactly go and withdraw a thousand bloody pounds this very instant!" protested Robards, gaining that distinct red tinge to his face that usually surfaced when he was dangerously close to going on a rampage. "You'll tell us what you have to say now or not at all!"

At that very moment, Pansy Parkinson poked her head in the door, took one look at the too-crowded room, and sighed. 

"Oh dear," she said, affecting a bored expression. "Draco, are you causing trouble again? Are  _ all  _ these men here to kill you, or just most of them?"

Draco's face remained impassive, but something was communicated between them nonetheless. Whatever it was, Pansy only shook her head in response, her pitch-black hair barely brushing her pale shoulders.

"Take a chance on them, Draco-darling," she said, leaning against the door frame. 

"We can't afford it." Draco's voice, which had previously been as hard as steel, now cracked with emotion. "The Dark Lord—"

Pansy held up her hand. "Trust them, Draco. Don't try to bear the burden alone. Deep down, in your heart of hearts, you know these are good people. If no one else, trust Harry— but the rest of them have earned some modicum of trust just by serving in the last war." 

Draco looked stricken. "But Pansy—"

"Look around. Look into their eyes, Draco. They are the people we might have been if our circumstances had allowed us to be. All they are doing is the same that we have always done— trying to find a way to survive. You have the answers. All you have to do is trust."

Pansy's words were evidently the straw that broke the camel's back. Draco cracked like an egg that had been catapulted at a brick wall. 

"My Aunt Bellatrix is a singularly nasty woman," he began, trembling ever-so slightly, "And if things all go to Voldemort's plan, we each and every one are going to find out why."


	8. Plotting, Planning, and Other Promiscuity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idek anymore yall, just enjoy the show if you can :)

Harry could hardly believe what he was hearing.

“So you mean to tell us that Bellatrix Lestrange— your aunt on your mother’s side— is such a powerful  _ Leglimens  _ that she could theoretically wipe the minds of the entirety of London if she got close enough, and Tom Riddle— who now has full control of the Red Guard and is in Dudley’s good graces— intends to use that ability to seize the crown for himself?”

Draco nodded, and Harry looked to the ceiling. 

“... Isn’t that a bit far-fetched though?” asked Ron, looking to Robards for backup. “I mean, how could we possibly know any of that for sure?”

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to give you this information without the resources to take care of this myself," Draco said with a glare that could have curdled milk. "It's the hanging incident all over again."

Ron flushed red to the roots of his hair. "Oi! Don't go digging up old bones, we don't have time for that if what you say  _ is  _ true after all."

"Not to offend or discredit you, Draco, but for all intents and purposes, your aunt lacks motive," said Harry, pushing off of the wall he was leaning against. "What reason has Bellatrix Lestrange to align herself with a royal cousin that's fallen from grace?"

"Assuming her participation in the last Uprising isn't proof enough," Draco replied, shooting a glance at Robards, "She's also shared a somewhat… shall we say,  _ intimate _ … relationship with the Dark Lord for a time, and was known by my mother and many others to share his lust for power. In case that explanation is still unsatisfactory in your eyes, I can only provide this— Aunt Bella is nutty as a fucking fruitcake and as cruel and sharp as a flaying knife."

"Oh dear," said Arthur Weasley with a sort of odd smile, "You must know her quite well then."

"We had a taste of her when we were young," Pansy Parkinson chimed in, "But it was only that. Our parents— mine and the others', of course, with Draco's excepted— didn't want us anywhere near her. The one time we were around her was—"

"Mummy Was A Cow, Ask Me How in B flat," Draco finished nonsensically, completely deadpan despite it all, "But that's beside the point. The point is that she's only a few day's ride from here, along with my father and a handful of others. Shortly, they will join Greyback's forces to form the beginnings of an army, the rest of which will be approaching from the west, with Barty Crouch the younger at the head. We  _ must  _ stop them before they can approach the walls of the city."

"So an average day at work, then?" asked Ron, and Draco's scowl was cold enough that Harry felt the need to press a heavy hand to his shoulder to both comfort and confine his lover. 

"Far from it," said Parkinson, and Harry noted the tiredness in her eyes. "Apart from the fact that Bellatrix Lestrange and Barty Crouch Jr. are ruthless, cunning, and incredibly difficult to defeat… it's death or nothing for such as they are, and they won't die easily either. At least, not from what I've witnessed. I've noticed something… strange about Tom Riddle during my time in his service."

"Strange how?" asked Harry, and Pansy looked away. 

"He can't be wounded— not permanently anyways. Nothing lasts longer than a few minutes. Anything, from bruises he's received while training new recruits to paper cuts from all the bloody letters he writes,  _ always  _ heals _.  _ Sometimes I—"

Pansy paused, worrying her lip, and when she spoke again, her voice was small and weak. 

"Sometimes, I wonder if he can be killed at all."

And all of a sudden, everything clicked. 

"Harry," said Hermoine as her hand shot to grip his arm, and he placed his large hand (which had previously been on Draco's shoulder) over her small one. 

"I know," he said gravely, "I had the same thought."

Draco frowned. "Well since everyone else isn't a  _ Legilimens  _ and I have no idea how to explain what you're screaming in your head about, would you mind sharing with the class what a  _ Horcrux  _ is?"

Sometimes, Harry thought, being in love with a man that could read his mind really, really sucked. 

"Well, it's all theoretical," Hermoine touched to explain, casting furtive glances around the room. "I first encountered it in the Royal Library—"

"—in the  _ restricted  _ section of the Royal Library," scowled Robards, but Hermoine ignored him completely, as was her wont.

"—and then I had Ron and Harry read it to make sure that I wasn't hallucinating. Basically, it's a special kind of regeneration technology that allows cell function to accelerate thousands of times faster than normal in order to heal wounds at a rapid rate, but there's a bit more to it than that."

Hermoine paused, sending a questioning glance Harry's way, and Harry nodded, signaling for her to say all that she knew. 

"We're not exactly sure how it works— the article was pretty vague— but as best we understand, the goal of a  _ Horcrux  _ is immortality. However, with just cell regeneration alone, the  _ Horcrux  _ technology would have one major flaw, which would be that upon total annihilation of any cells, there would be none to replicate. In essence, killing someone with  _ Horcrux  _ tech implanted would probably take something like a huge bomb or maybe laser incineration, but it  _ could _ be done. The inventor, having realized this, came up with a way around it."

"Which is?" Draco prompted, but immediately grew pale once Hermoine looked to him and shook her head, probably broadcasting her worries, thoughts, and fears by accident.

"If the cells from the original host of the  _ Horcrux  _ were implanted into a secondary host, then upon depletion of the original host's cells, those within the secondary host would begin rapid regeneration. From within the secondary host, the cells of the original would form an entirely new body for the original, killing the secondary host as it grew and burst forth from its— er,  _ their _ — skull." Sheepishly, she added, "That upgrade of the  _ Horcrux  _ tech was nicknamed  _ Athena's Grace _ , cause, y'know, the myth."

No one seemed to be quite as amused by that as they perhaps ought to have been, but Harry couldn't find it within himself to blame them. 

"So Voldemort probably has a  _ Horcrux  _ implanted into someone," Pansy said to no one in particular, her gaze lifted to the ceiling. "Fantastic."

"Oh, it's much more than that, my dear Miss Parkinson," called a soft, silken voice from the hallway, "He's got seven."

Immediately, everyone in the room was on their guard. The cramped, crowded space buzzed and crackled with lethal tech, and Harry instinctively placed himself between Draco and the threat. 

"Oh dear," said the threat, who happened to be a rather lovely woman of a seasoned (but otherwise indeterminable) age, "My, what a room full of excitable youngsters. Tell me, Draco, darling, have you been making friends?"

Harry froze. His immediate instinct was to snarl and expand a  _ Protego  _ barrier around himself and Draco, but something about this woman struck him as strangely familiar. He was certain that they had never met, but there was something about her that he undeniably  _ knew  _ from somewhere. White-blonde hair, rosy cheeks, the perfect cupid's bow, and one brow arched in a soft, yet somehow clever and menacing expression… silver eyes, like pools of mercury, or a twinkling star… 

"Mother, honestly, can't you see this room is full e-bloody-nough?" Draco groused, swinging his legs around so that he could slide off the hospital bed, albeit with some difficulty. So doing, he looked around, folded his arms, and donned one of Harry's least favorite expressions:

The one that meant he was about to start barking orders. 

"This simply won't do," he said, crossing his arms to hide the shaking of his hands. "Out. Out, all of you! There's not enough room in here to have a proper discussion, and I'd like to have my bloody trousers on while we all talk business— besides, a hospital room is  _ not  _ the place to have a war conference, it's simply not done!"

At first, everyone was frozen in shock, but at Draco's obnoxious insistence, they all cleared out with the intention to relocate to one of the conference rooms in the building that held Robards' office. All except Harry, of course, who, instead of exiting, closed the door behind everyone with a soft  _ click  _ and locked it tight before turning to find a rather distraught Draco leaning against the bed with his head in his hands. 

"Of all the ways I imagined you meeting my mother," said Draco miserably into his own palms, "This was the  _ last  _ way I would have picked."

Harry smiled ruefully. "And is that on the same list of least-desired outcomes that includes being a total prat and driving me mad by demanding a thousand bloody pounds for the intel you were literally tortured for?"

Draco's face contorted into an expression of dejection, and Harry immediately felt regret. 

"I don't want to be mistrustful," replied Draco quietly, raking a hand through his already-disheveled hair, "But please understand me when I say that I had to be absolutely sure that either your lot would help me or I had the resources to do what was necessary on my own."

"I do understand, Draco. I don't like it, but I do understand."

"For what it's worth, I apologize."

Harry walked forward and pulled one of Draco's hands away from his lap and held it in his own. 

"We have years' worth of trust to rebuild. It won't happen overnight, and it won't happen in as linear a fashion as we might hope, but I suspect it might come a bit easier when there isn't a war barking up our tree, yeah?"

Draco gave a wry laugh, and Harry leaned forwards, kissing his forehead. 

"Oh Harry, we're in such a mess."

"It's going to be alright."

Draco's brow furrowed. "How can you be so sure?"

“Because I love you.”

And somehow, that was enough.

“Come on now,” said Harry, nodding towards the door. “Whenever you’re ready, let’s head to Robards’ office and see if we can’t set things to right.”

  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Narcissa Malfoy sat lightly in one of the chairs in Captain Robards’ office, regarding those around her.

The Longbottom boy was the first person she examined, intrigued by his truly unique stream of consciousness. For all intents and purposes, he seemed meek and timid to the outside world, but Narcissa knew from what she could glean from his mind that he had the heart of a lion. For all that, however, he was achingly lonely, and Narcissa felt that she could whole-heartedly relate.

Next was the newest Mrs. Weasley. Hermione Weasley née Granger was as sharp as a razor blade and shone just as brightly in the correct light. She was watching and observing Narcissa even as  _ she _ was being watched and observed, and Naricssa was pleased to find that most of the young woman's deductions were not far off the mark. Fortunately, for Narcissa, the newest Weasley husband was just as easily read as his wife was, and (to Narcissa’s shock) was nearly just as astute. Neither of the newlyweds trusted her, and Narcissa felt that she would have liked to commend their wariness if it weren’t entirely inappropriate to provide them with the knowledge that she was rifling through their heads.

One by one she analyzed the room, reading moods, reading thoughts, until finally the specimen that she had wanted to study the most strolled in right behind her son. 

Harry Potter. The son-in-law she'd never known she'd had, until Draco had shown her his memories. The would-be killer of her only child. 

He was… interesting. 

The man projected his thoughts out as though he were screaming. Being in a room with him was akin to being in a room with a wailing child, if Narcissa was honest, but for all that, she took an instant liking to him. Love— overwhelming, seemingly indefatigable love—emanated from him like the beacon of a lighthouse out to sea, a declaration of reckless empathy and unbound affection. More interesting still, nearly everyone he looked on received the same steady flame of great and enduring love— there was no lack of it to go around, it seemed— but when Harry Potter thought of Draco, it was like witnessing a campfire explode into a blazing countryside. 

_ I have never loved nor been loved like that,  _ thought Narcissa, observing the careful way Harry lingered at her son's side, offering gentle touches to ease his worries.  _ I wonder that anyone has. Such a love is consuming, bordering on obsessive, and yet… _

She studied Draco, observed the way he leaned into those touches, felt the wave of calmness, confidence, and fully requited affection rolling off of him.

_ And yet my Draco could not have survived on anything less than so great a love, for it is the only kind that could mirror his own.  _

Then Harry turned to her, and his eyes grew impassive at the same time that his heart grew mercilessly cold. He did not trust her and he did not like her, and it was no secret why. 

_ 'She cast him out,'  _ he thought, regarding her cruelly but accurately,  _ 'She was complicit in his suffering, and she comes now with news for us, expecting to be received with trust and kindness.' _

Draco abruptly sighed, and the entire room's attention shifted to him. 

"Harry, she can hear that," Draco said, deadpan. "She can, I can, and bloody Granger can probably  _ see _ it on you."

"I think you mean bloody  _ Weasley, _ " said Ronald with a loopy grin, his heart bursting with pride and joy at the thought of his wife, and Narcissa could tell that Draco was only just withholding a sarcastic comment.

Shockingly, instead of leaping to his own defense or justifying his thoughts as Narcissa might have expected, Harry turned beet red and adopted an expression of apologetic embarrassment. Narcissa surmised that he felt ashamed to have thought so harshly of her without hearing the full story or what she came to tell them first, and a deep affection for the young man swelled in her chest. 

"It's quite alright," she said, waving the mishap away with a gloved hand. "You have every reason to be wary, and one with a gift such as mine finds themselves used to hearing things they might rather not be privy to."

"All the same, it was ill-thought," said Harry with a slight bow. "My apologies."

Narcissa nodded. "Apology accepted."

"I don't bloody like all this mind-reading shite," groused Robards, who somehow managed to power past his shame at speaking so crudely in front of a lady to continue speaking. "If you've got information you're inclined to share, Mrs. Malfoy, it would be appreciated if you would do so promptly and aloud."

The mood of the room shifted uncomfortably, and Narcissa had to hold back a laugh. Humans were such predictable creatures. 

"Very well," she replied, settling back in her chair a bit more comfortably. "You have already heard the explanation of what  _ Horcrux  _ technology is and how it functions. Those of you who researched it are probably aware that making more than one of them is ill-advised and especially dangerous since it hasn't been formally tested due to the dubious ethical nature of it."

The newest Mrs. Weasley nodded fervently, so Narcissa continued. 

"Tom Riddle— otherwise known as Voldemort, the Dark Lord— has managed to make seven. He implanted them in his closest, most trusted friends and advisors, all save for one."

Robards huffed. His impatience was acrid in the air as he spoke. "Can you please spit out some names before I go mad, Mrs. Malfoy?"

"Peter Pettigrew," she snapped, turning an icy glare on the captain. "My son killed him years ago, and with him his  _ Horcrux _ . Fenrir Grayback, also dead by my son's hand as I understand it. Severus Snape, the deceased Cardinal. Among the living  _ Horcruxes _ are my sister Bellatrix Lestrange, my husband Lucius Malfoy, Barty Crouch, Jr., and one Mister Harry Potter of The Garrison regiment."

Hearts plummeted with Narcissa's words, and every face around the room was contorted into a different shape of shock. Harry himself was especially wide-eyed and bewildered, but beside him Draco stood deathly still, his face impassive even as a tempest raged inside his breast. 

"Oh, yes," she murmured aloud to no one in particular, "Tom Riddle is a cruel, cunning man— for even had one of you somehow unwound the tangled riddle of the  _ Horcrux,  _ worked out that he had more than one, and managed to guess correctly who they were, he'd already made a contingency plan for such an event. Voldemort was well aware that none of royal blood would kill one of their own, and that our dear Mr. Potter is of The Garrison, which is famed for the loyalty and solidarity within its ranks, was just a happy coincidence.  _ That,  _ darlings, was the double victory in murdering the Potters but leaving their child alive— with that blow, the Dark Lord gained the ultimate checkmate."

"That's— that's  _ awful _ ," said Neville, voicing the thoughts that no one else dared, "To think he could be so full of malice to think of such a horrific thing…"

_ 'It's exactly what I would have done,'  _ Draco was thinking to himself, utterly horrified,  _ 'I would make it so hard to beat me that managing the feat would feel like losing. Truly, this is a test of ambition. Who wants the victory move— him, or us?' _

"Can it be removed?" asked Hermione, pain lancing the hope in her heart. She wanted so desperately to save her best friend, the boy who was more like a brother to her than anyone else on earth. 

Narcissa was glad she didn't have to shatter that hope. 

"There is a way… but it's largely theoretical. The patient is as likely to die in the procedure as they would be in a bullfight."

"Er," said the young woman, worrying her lip, "Exactly how likely is that?"

Narcissa shrugged— an indelicate bodily expression, but an appropriate one. "Well, since it's never been tested, I can't say for certain, but since I developed it myself on the way here instead of sleeping, I'd give it a strong fifty-fifty chance. Better, if I could work with a Healer."

"Wait, wait," Robards interjected, his eyes studying Narcissa coldly, "How do we even know you're telling the truth? You could just be fabricating all this in an attempt to make Harry's death look like an accident! And besides, unless you were in Tom Riddle's inner circle, I doubt you would know any of this, even if it's true!"

Narcissa raised a brow. "You forget, Captain, that every mind in this room is laid bare before me. I see all you think, feel all you feel. That is how I acquired my information. And as for proof that I'm not lying… well, I have none."

She fixed him with a pointed look, paused for effect, then added, 

"Although, do you really believe I would admit the guilt and secure the arrest and subsequent execution of my sister and my husband if that were the case? In the interest of preserving my family, the most important thing in my life, giving away that sort of evidence would seem counterproductive, wouldn't it?"

The room went deadly silent, then Draco spoke, his voice harsh and cracking with emotion. 

"Will we have to kill Father?" he asked, unable to meet her eyes. "Will it come to that, or can you convince him to give himself up and test the procedure on him?"

Narcissa wished she knew the answer to that. 

"I'll handle Lucius on the day of reckoning. That will be my part in the plan."

"What plan?" asked Harry, pleasantly, handsomely befuddled, and Narcissa granted him a gentle smile. 

"The one that Ronald Weasley is thinking up in great detail to discuss and cross-reference information with Draco later."

Ron, the poor dear, turned cherry-red to the roots of his hair. 

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed, looking around the room in a bit of a panic as everyone stifled their hesitant laughter, "Don't look at me like that, how would you lot feel if she announced  _ your  _ innermost thoughts?"

"I didn't mean to give offense, young Master Weasley," said Narcissa, stifling an ill-timed giggle, "But you do think rather loudly, and, I must add, quite well. All I ask is that you share those thoughts freely with your comrades— I happen to like your strategy so far."

Ron frowned at that, but soon shook off any embarrassment that might have lingered with a nonchalant shrug. 

"Alright then, Lady Malfoy," he replied, his expression smooth but reluctant, "But don't be cross with me when they chuck me out the nearest window since this plan that you seem to like is completely barmy."

Narcissa laughed. 

"Have no fear of defenestration, for I'm certain your captain has not given you leave to die, as you are young and yet able to earn more money for his coin purse. Speak, your mind, young Weasley, and spare no detail."

"Fine," he sighed in defeat. "It goes a little like this…"

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  


They would work in pairs. 

Neville and Pansy, despite appearances, made a pretty good team— together, they would ride out to meet Barty Crouch, Jr. and his forces to the west, accompanied by twenty Garrison soldiers. A few of the Weasley brothers would ride with them also, tasked with wreaking havoc and causing chaos so that Neville and Pansy could slip through enemy lines unnoticed by anyone who could prevent them from reaching their target. It was a simple plan, but one that promised to be effective. 

Meanwhile, on the other side of things, Narcissa and Robards would seek out Lucius Malfoy when he seemed most alone. At that time, one of two outcomes would occur: either Narcissa would convince Lucius to come away with her and have his  _ Horcrux  _ removed, or Robards would step in and ensure that matters were resolved to his satisfaction. This, too, was a simple plan in theory, if not in practice. 

Ideally, at the same time the threat of Lucius Malfoy and Barty Crouch were being neutralized, Harry and Draco would be locked in a vicious, deadly battle of minds and wills with Bellatrix Lestrange. Therein lay the most risky facet of the plan— it would take every single ounce of strength and focus from both Harry and Draco to win and escape with their lives, which left no room for error. As a precaution, Ron and Hermoine would be sent to accompany them and serve as their protection from any outside forces. 

If all went as planned, Harry and Draco would  _ Apparate  _ back to a fixed spot within The Garrison infirmary where the  _ Horcrux  _ removal procedure would take place. From there, as soon as every  _ Horcrux  _ was eliminated, someone (whoever was most fit after all the fighting) would be sent out to land the killing blow on the Dark Lord, and the whole matter would be done with. 

It all looked so simple on paper, and yet as Draco willed his hands to stop their uncontrollable trembling, he couldn't help but wonder if he'd run out of spare lives yet. 

"You look tired, love," said Harry, who had just set a sandwich before him, urging him to eat. "You should rest in a minute, when you feel like it— my bed is even nice and firm, just like you like it."

That last bit was said with a grimace, and Draco couldn't help but give an exhausted chuckle. 

"I think I'll rest later, after I think some more. I still don't have a strategy for how to face Aunt Bella, and it's going to drive me mad until I have some semblance of a plan."

Harry tutted. "You'll never think up any sort of worthwhile plan when you're so depleted. Besides, Luna only discharged you from the hospital because I swore I'd take care of you."

"Luna discharged me from the hospital because her commanding officer was flying off the handle about me kicking him out and demanding that we meet elsewhere."

"Not bloody likely," Harry grinned. "Nothing in that infirmary happens without Luna's ultimate say-so. Robards is a big, scary bloke, but he's no match for those darts of hers."

Draco shuddered. He remembered his own experience with Luna's darts all too well.

"Fair point."

At that, Harry grinned. "So does that mean you'll nap with me?"

Draco frowned, turning away. 

"No, darling, not now."

Harry's mood shifted, turning from light and playful to heavy and solemn in a matter of moments. 

"You only call me darling in that tone when you feel like total shit," said Harry, as observant as ever. "What's bothering you?"

_'The fact that you've got a piece of technology inside your head that's meant to keep Voldemort from dying at the expense of your life!'_ Draco wanted to scream. ' _If I lose you now, I'm afraid I'll never learn to move forward— that I'll_ _never_ want _to move forward. I don't want a life that you aren't a part of.'_

No part of that answer was acceptable, so he just shook his head. 

"Well, if you won't tell me, I can't force you," Harry said, placing a sun-darkened hand on Draco's pale cheek, "But I can and will invoke my right as your husband to make you stop staring at that stupid stack of papers and take care of yourself."

Harry's tone brooked no argument— Draco let himself be led by the hand to Harry's old, springy couch, curling up with the man he loved and about three too many blankets that ended up tangling them together more so than providing any warmth. Without a word, Harry turned on the telly and put on some foreign drama that was difficult to understand even  _ with  _ subtitles, and a moment later, when Harry buried his nose in white-blond hair, Draco understood that this was exactly what he had needed. 

Touch. Affection. Warmth. Familiarity.

_ Home.  _

"I don't deserve you," Draco murmured into Harry's wrist, which rested just below his chin because of how they were nestled together. 

"On the contrary," Harry replied, grinning against Draco's hair, "I think we deserve anything we bloody want after all we've been through."

And wasn't that the bitch of it?

"Do you think they'll ever let us live in peace?" 

He felt Harry shrug. 

"You'd go barking mad with boredom in a life of peace and comfort, don't you think?"

"It was peaceful and comfortable before… in Surrey, I mean. We were happy in Surrey."

There was silence for a long moment. In that silence, Draco noticed that at some point during their conversation, their heartbeats had synchronized, creating a resonating  _ tha-thump, tha-thump  _ that shook Draco to his very core. As if sensing Draco's instability, Harry wrapped his arms just a little tighter around his lover, and Draco let out an exhausted sigh.

"Maybe you're right," he said, glancing up at the ceiling. "Maybe we couldn't go back to that life. We're different people now than we were then. Older, harsher people."

"I should like to start over," said Harry suddenly, and with a strange air about him. "I should like to recover and renovate my parents' manor house and fill it with friends and family— you know, Ron, 'Mione, and whoever else we like well enough— erasing all the bad there and replacing it with good."

"And exactly what would we do with a giant manor house full of family and friends?" asked Draco, half-teasing, half-hopeful as he turned to look at Harry. 

Harry hummed, playing right along as he pretended to think. 

"Well, let's see, I think we would plant a giant garden, and let everyone have a piece of it so we can judge who grows the prettiest flowers, and maybe try to grow one of those maze-hedges they always have in films— no manor house is complete without one, you know. Oh, and of course we would have to have game nights and movie marathon days and weeks at a time where we do nothing at all except as we please."

Draco quirked a brow, trying to keep from laughing. "Is that all?"

Harry's grin was mischievous and sincere all at once. 

"Hmm, perhaps not  _ all.  _ There is something I've been thinking about for a while."

"Oh, for a while, you say? Do tell."

A hand drifted down to Draco's midriff, playing out against his stomach. 

"I was thinking maybe, if you wanted, we could start expanding the family a bit— I mean, start our own, that is."

Draco turned fully then, to gauge the level of sincerity with which his husband spoke, and found him wholly earnest. 

"You… would want that?"

Harry looked away, flushing. "Only if you would. It's your body, of course, and I don't know how you would fare physically, but as long as it wouldn't be too risky and it was something you wanted… Then yes."

"I love you."

The words had come unbidden, had ripped themselves from Draco's chest before he'd even known they were there, and yet somehow he'd meant them then more than ever. 

"I take it that's a yes then?" Harry teased, and Draco's heart threatened to melt. 

"Of course it is. It's more than I would ever have hoped for. If we survive…"

Draco paused, swallowed thickly, then forced himself to continue. 

"If  _ you  _ survive, my love, I'll bear as many of your children as you'd like."

Silence overcame them again. Harry's mood was distant and conflicted for a moment, then solidified into something more real— a dark, terrible determination, tinged with the slightest touches of fear and the caustic sweetness of hope's fragile whisper. 

"If I die, I die," said Harry, his voice unwavering. "I want you to be safe. I want England to thrive, naturally, but for you… Draco I would die a thousand times over, tear the world apart in my wake if I must, to ensure that you could live and be well."

"So theatrical," murmured Draco, but his heart was somber. 

"I'm entirely sincere."

"I know."

Draco felt that he could no longer contain the thoughts that had plagued him since he'd found out that Harry had indeed been implanted with a  _ Horcrux. _

"Without you, I'm not sure that I could ever be happy."

"Then I guess I'll just have to live."

Draco laughed. It started as a disbelieving chuckle, which led into a bit of a hysterical giggle, which then gave way to full-on guffaws that hurt his stomach and forced tears from his eyes. Harry, puzzled but amused, laughed right along with him. 

"Draco, sweetheart, have you lost the plot or what?" Harry giggled as Draco buried his laughing face in Harry's favorite hoodie. "I can't have you going mad on me just yet."

"Only  _ you _ ," wheezed Draco, "Only you would face nearly certain death and think 'oh, well, if it please not  _ Draco  _ for me to die, then I just shan't.'  _ You're  _ the barmy one, not me!"

"Hey, well, I mean—"

"Shut up and kiss me, you fool of a man."

And kiss they did. 

It wasn't like it had been of late. There was no heaviness, no desperation driving them— rather, it was like floating, with laughter caught between their kisses and joy in their fingertips. They nearly fell off the couch more than once with their playful touching and teasing, and then Draco  _ did  _ fall off when Harry whispered those sweet words in his ear:

"I want you inside me tonight," he said, laughing as Draco caught an earlobe between his teeth. 

After his fall, Draco wasted no time in gathering himself to his feet and pulling Harry off the couch and up the stairs to his bedroom. 

"Oh dear," grinned Harry, a bit loopy from being all but tossed on the bed. "You're such an animal today."

"You haven't seen anything yet," Draco promised with a smile like a campfire, "Just you wait."

Within moments, Harry's pants were across the room, and Draco's face was between his arse cheeks. 

_ Bad news and the looming threat of war excepted, today hasn't even been that bad,  _ thought Draco as his tongue circled and teased Harry's rim,  _ And it still has the potential to become something truly thrilling yet! _

  
  
  
  


***

  
  
  


Harry was out of his mind with pleasure. 

Draco's tongue was torture and bliss all at once— Harry had been aware that he had potentially quite forgotten what it felt like to have his arse eaten in  _ general,  _ but what he had failed to account for was having forgotten what it was like to have  _ Draco  _ eat his arse. It was so intense, so wild, that Harry was becoming quite convinced that he would be coming untouched from that wicked tongue alone. 

"Of fucking hell, I can't take it, Draco, please, please,  _ please." _

He was babbling, begging, and he didn't even know what for. All he knew was that anything Draco was offering, he was taking, full stop. 

"What do you want, Harry?" Draco asked, his voice equal parts silken and raspy. "What can I give to you?"

"Anything," Harry gasped,  _ "Everything." _

Draco teased a finger at Harry's entrance as he reached for the lube.

"My fingers?"

_ "Yes." _

"And then my cock?"

"Oh fuck yes, please,  _ please  _ sweetheart, I want it all. Please, I want to come with your cock in me."

"As if I could ever deny you anything."

A finger breached him then, and Harry inhaled sharply at the intrusion. 

"Easy," Draco murmured at the buck of Harry's hips, "I'll be gentle, you know I will. Relax."

Harry did know. Draco was the only lover he'd ever allowed to go so far as penetration for that very reason. Being on the receiving end of anal was pleasureable, yes, but Harry found it so intense that he could hardly handle it at times— only Draco had ever been so gentle with preparation that Harry had been game to let him try, and having since experienced Draco many times over, Harry would be willing to wager that only Draco could ever leave him satisfied but not sick from the experience. 

"That's it," murmured Draco, easing a second finger in as Harry writhed. "You're so perfect, Harry, so beautiful."

And then, Draco joined their minds, making their pleasure one, and Harry forgot how to breathe. 

"Oh Draco," he keened, pushing back on those long, slender fingers, "More, more, I need it, need  _ you. _ "

_ 'You have me,' _ Draco's voice echoed in his head.  _ 'Just let me in.' _

After a third finger and more lube than was strictly necessary (Draco knew better than anyone that Harry liked it wet), Draco breached him with the head of his cock, and Harry remembered abruptly that being fucked like this, on his back with his legs hooked over his forearms, was something of a religious experience. And, unsurprisingly, watching Draco above him, golden and angelic as he fucked into him, was a key part of the ritual. 

"You feel so good," Draco told him, pressing gentle kisses into his neck. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

Harry didn't need to reply— he was certain Draco could feel it in their entangled minds that he felt just the same. 

_ 'I'll not die in this war,'  _ thought Harry as Draco hit his prostate over and over and over.  _ 'I'll never leave this man, I'll never leave his love. There is no force on earth that can take me from him.' _

"You astound me," said Draco, tangling a hand in dark, unruly curls that so resisted any attempt at brushing. "You do know you're not immortal, don't you?"

"For you, I could be a god."

Oh boy, Harry really _ had _ forgotten how much bottoming sent him off the deep end… but in the end, he supposed it hardly mattered to what depths he fell, as long as Draco was there to catch him at the end.

"I  _ will _ catch you. All you have to do is let yourself fall."

And so Harry fell.

And fell.

And fell.

Until there was nothing left of him but the pulsing heat of an orgasm in his veins and his overwhelming love.

Draco wasn't far behind in falling, and as they lay side-by-side, boneless from their bliss, Harry laughed. 

"We make such a mess," he grinned, feeling his release drying on his stomach and Draco's dripping from his arse. "I'm going to have to shower. And change these sheets."

Draco raised a brow in that funny way of his, and before he could make a quick-witted comment about shower sex and there being no need to change sheets just to befoul another set, Harry climbed atop him and kissed him silent. 

_ Yes, _ Harry thought as Draco's hands trailed up his sides,  _ In the arms of this man, I'll live forever.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. sorry if this chapter is short I honestly cant tell if I wrote less or if I just wrote faster and I dont intend to find out so 😅 anywho, I love you guys, thanks for being so sweet and supportive!


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